UC-NRLF 


uarteKT 


ALVIN  HOWARD  SANDERS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA    LIBRARY 


IN  WINTER  QUARTERS 


In  Winter  Quarters 


From  Dumbiedykes 
To  Town  and  Back  Again 


By 
Alvin  Howard  Sanders 

Editor  "The  Breeder's  Gazette" 


Chicago 

Breeder's  Gazette  Print 
1920 


Copyright,  1920 

Sanders  Publishing  Company 

All  Rights  Reserved 


UHIVEKSIXT  FA 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


The  Black  Swans. 

The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes. 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Stock  Yard 

Inn. 

The  Story  of  the  Herefords. 
Shorthorn  Cattle. 
A  History  of  the  Percheron 
Horse  (in  collaboration). 


Introductory 

REPEATED  requests  from  readers  of 
"The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes,"  and 
its  companion  volume,  "The  Black  Swans," 
have  led  the  writer  to  attempt  the  fulfill- 
ment of  a  promise  vaguely  made  in  the 
concluding  paragraph  of  the  series  of 
sketches  last  above  mentioned.  The  two 
former  grew  out  of  vacation  days  in  the 
out-of-doors.  From  "Dumbiedykes"  to 
an  apartment  house  in  Lincoln  Park  West 
involves  a  change  of  base  that  finds  re- 
flection in  these  pages. 

Frost-crystals  and  "sun-dogs"  have 
splendors  not  surpassed  by  the  halos  of 
the  harvest  moon.  Still  I  confess  that  I 
prefer  to  brave  the  blizzards  of  the  pres- 
ent from  inside  the  library  window,  and 
do  most  of  my  shoveling  these  days  in 
the  drifts  of  bygone  years.  If  therefore 
I  deal  mainly  with  "the  snows  of  yester- 
day" it  will  be  because  an  arm-chair 
outlook  somehow  invites  reflective  retro- 
spection rather  than  comment  on  the 
passing  storm. 

THE  AUTHOR. 
Chicago,  January,  1920. 


"The  wilderness  is  near  as  well  as  dear 
to  every  man.  The  very  uprightness  of 
the  pines  and  maples  asserts  the  ancient 
rectitude  and  vigor  of  Nature.  Our  lives 
need  the  relief  of  such  a  background, 
where  the  pine  flourishes  and  the  jay  still 
screams."— Henry  D.  Thoreau. 


Contents 


PAGE 


I    "CLOUDY  AND  COLDER"   .        I 
II    RATTLING  THE  CHAINS     .      17 

III  PERSEUS   OR   PUGILIST?    .      29 

IV  SEEING  THINGS      ...     39 
V   A  GOVERNOR'S  GIFT  .      .      51 

VI   GOING  BACK    .      .      .      .     61 

VII    WHEN  SNOWS  ARE  DEEP     81 
VIII    PARKWAYS       AND      WIL- 
LOWS .      ....      .     93 

IX   BEHIND  IRON  BARS    .      .117 

X    COMPELLING  CHORDS        .    141 

XI    EIGHT  BELLS    .      ...    159 

XII    SPEAKING  OF  ROCKS  .      .    173 

XIII  ONE  WAY  OUT     ..     '.      .    185 

XIV  As    YE    HOE    so    SHALL 

YE  REAP      .      .      ,      .    199 
XV    "FAIR  AND  WARMER"          211 


IN  WINTER  QUARTERS 

I 

" Cloudy  and  Colder" 

ASK  any  well-informed  squirrel  or 
/"~V  blue-jay  you  may  chance  to  meet 
in  this  latitude  as  you  stroll  along  the 
edge  of  a  wood  on  a  dull  November 
day,  and  you  will  be  told  that  gray 
skies  and  cold  dark  nights  are  not 
half  so  bad  as  they  are  sometimes 
painted,  if  you  understand  what  they 
really  mean.  They  know  that  those 
old  leaves  have  to  come  down  to  make 
way  for  next  year's  crop.  They  know 
that  the  rain  that  so  bedraggled  the 
landscape  last  week  was  needed  by  the 
fall-sown  grain  and  was  delivered  in 
the  laboratories  of  the  fields  and  forests 
[i] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


just  at  the  right  time  to  insure  the 
growths  you  will  be  expecting  in  the 
spring.  The  jays,  in  fact,  are  happiest 
when  there  is  frost  in  the  air  and  snow 
in  their  beloved  thickets.  They  were 
busy  all  day  yesterday  watching  us, 
at  a  safe  distance,  as  we  were  pre- 
paring the  cottage  and  the  lawn,  the 
flower-beds  and  the  shrubbery  for 
their  annual  cold-storage  experiences. 
Wise  blue-jays — and  few  excel  their 
tribe  in  all-around  craftiness — never 
get  on  really  intimate  terms  with  men 
or  boys.  They  know  better.  They  are 
perfectly  well  aware  of  the  fact  that 
they  are  under  indictment,  on  various 
criminal  charges,  in  every  community 
they  invade.  They  are  thieves  and 
outlaws.  There  is  no  doubt  on  that 
point.  They  are  the  Robin  Hoods  of 
bird-land.  They  scold  and  quarrel  and 
steal,  and  build  no  nests  under  your 
eaves  or  in  your  hedge-rows.  It  is  all 
right  of  course  for  us  to  inveigle  old 
barnyard  "Biddy"  into  our  coop,  and 
[2] 


'Cloudy  and  Colder' 


then  loot  her  nest  for  our  own  satis- 
faction, and  kill  her  young  that  we 
may  feast,  but  let  a  blue-jay  indulge 
himself  in  the  delicacies  that  appeal 
most  to  his  hearty  appetite  and  our 
hands  go  up  in  horror  at  the  cruel 
rapacity  of  his  wild  untutored  nature. 
Just  the  same  there  is  a  note  in  his  cry 
I  like.  It  is  a  challenge  to  his  enemies; 
the  call  of  the  neighboring  wild.  There 
is  no  suggestion  of  submission;  nothing 
meek  or  subdued  in  his  attitude.  He  is 
a  savage.  He  admits  it  and  glories  in 
it.  He  is  the  very  incarnation  of  the 
sturdy  spirit  of  the  northern  winter, 
just  as  the  meadow  lark  is  the  tangible 
embodiment  of  Maytime  joys  and 
happiness.  I  once  thought  it  good  fun 
to  shoot  and  kill  both.  Now  I  had  as 
soon  turn  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  upon 
myself  as  to  bring  one  of  them  to 
earth. 

What  a  bundle  of  inconsistencies  we 
are  anyhow.  While  I  shot  no  blue-jays 
on  the  day  of  which  I  speak  I  did  not 


In  Winter  Quarters 


hesitate  to  bring  certain  other  forms  of 
life  to  an  abrupt  close.  A  killing  frost 
had  already  shaken  down  the  bar- 
berry leaves  that  had  sheltered  brown 
thrushes  and  their  babies  from  mid- 
summer suns  and  prying  eyes.  The 
rabbits  will  profit  by  this,  as  they  will 
have  snug  cover  when  the  snowdrifts 
come.  A  pair  of  friendly  burr  oaks 
parted  with  the  foliage  that  had  once 
been  dear  to  wrens  and  robins,  in  an 
effort  at  protecting  from  the  rigors 
now  at  hand  a  bed  of  pansies  that  have 
been  a  perfect  riot  of  black  and  brown 
and  blue  and  pink  and  white  and  gold 
week  after  week  all  season  through. 
They  are  discouraged  now  because  of 
the  cold  wet  storms  of  recent  days, 
and  have  evidently  made  up  their 
minds  to  give  it  up  for  this  year,  and 
trust  to  the  trees  about  them  to  see 
them  safely  through  'til  spring.  And 
the  trees,  observing  their  plight,  have 
come  to  their  aid.  When  I  went  out 
there  the  other  day — the  day  of  the 


"Cloudy  and  Colder' 


blue-jay  frolic  in  the  depths  of  the 
grove, — just  one  wan  little  purple  face 
was  peeping  through  the  thick  brown 
"comforter"  the  oaks  had  sent  to 
keep  them  warm.  When  I  saw  this, 
and  recalled  how  years  before  a  similar 
lot  of  plants  had  gone  through  the 
winter  underneath  just  such  a  cover- 
ing, and  were  fine  bloomers  the  en- 
suing summer,  I  came  near  throwing 
away  the  big  fat  Holland  bulbs  bought 
to  take  their  place,  and  giving  the 
pansies  their  chance  for  life.  But  I 
didn't.  I  just  picked  the  sole  survivor, 
tucked  it  into  the  lapel  of  my  coat, 
and,  like  the  "rough-neck"  I  felt  my- 
self to  be  in  committing  such  an  appar- 
ent sacrilege,  spaded  the  whole  lot 
deeply  under  the  rich  black  earth,  out 
of  which  they  had  so  mysteriously 
elaborated  their  various  winsome  per- 
sonalities, set  the  tulip  tubers  in 
amongst  the  buried  plants,  re-covered 
all  with  russet  leaves  held  down  by  a 
piece  of  woven-wire  netting  and  a  few 


In  Winter  Quarters 


sticks  of  fire-wood  belonging  to  the 
"Black  Swans,"  and  left  them  there; 
the  one  to  furnish  food  for  future 
annuals,  and  the  other  to  prepare  our 
welcome  when  the  sun  comes  back 
from  his  long  vacation  in  the  south. 
Plants,  as  well  as  plover  and  other 
people,  have  to  take  their  appointed 
posts,  each  in  turn,  as  the  zero  hour  is 
struck  and  the  Eternal  wheel  goes 
round. 

Each  year  we  seem  to  heed  less  and 
less  the  annual  autumn  call  of  the  city, 
because  you  know  we  have  no  real 
home  but  a  bungalow  embowered  in 
woodland  shades.  We  love  to  stay 
and  watch  the  gold  turn  into  gray, 
and  some  day  I  shall  surely  wait  and 
watch  the  gray  grow  white,  for  winter 
is  an  old,  old  friend  of  mine.  Nature 
blows  first  hot,  then  cold,  while  en- 
gaged in  setting  her  greatest  trans- 
formation scenes.  It  is  in  the  alternate 
melting  and  congealing  process  that 
she  seems  to  mix  her  finest  colors, 
[6] 


'Cloudy  and  Colder' 


Only  two  days  ago  a  warm  shower  set 
April  in  our  midst,  and  deceived  the 
dandelions  into  blooming.  Yesterday 
a  north  wind  brought  dense  volumes  of 
cold,  wet,  low-hanging  clouds  that 
poured  rain  and  sleet  over  a  lot  of 
rapidly  disappearing  beauty.  Today 
it  is  clear  and  cold,  and  forest  aisles 
are  filling  fast.  Only  the  bluegrass 
holds  its  color,  and  still  tries  to  grow. 
Men  who  know  the  psychic  value, 
the  strange,  indefinable,  rejuvenating 
power  of  forest  depths,  find  the  same 
fine  sense  of  liberty  and  re-creation  in 
wildwood  paths  when  trees  are  bare  as 
when  all  the  greenery  is  there.  At 
such  a  time  there  is  brought  out  some- 
times in  startling  fashion  the  marked 
individuality  of  trees,  the  real  per- 
sonalities of  which  are  more  or  less 
disguised  when  clothed  in  wigs  and 
gowns.  The  clinging  parasites  that 
flaunt  their  flowing,  modifying  lines 
on  noble  trunks  when  suns  are  hot,  fall 
back,  forgotten  now,  into  the  dark 


In  Winter  Quarters 


shadows  from  whence  they  sprang. 
You  can  get  much  closer  to  a  tree  in 
winter  than  in  summer.  You  can  no 
more  know  a  tree  when  in  full  regalia 
than  you  can  judge  the  carcass  of  a 
long-wooled  sheep  by  looking  at  it 
before  its  fleece  has  been  shorn.  There 
are  crooks  and  curves  and  gnarls  and 
knots  and  hollow  trunks,  beloved  of 
bees  or  birds,  which  you  will  never  see 
except  when  north  winds  blow.  I  am 
speaking  now  of  native  growths.  Your 
well-groomed  nursery  stock  is  all  well 
enough  if  you  can't  get  trees  any  other 
way.  But  I  know  single  glorious  pines 
and  chestnuts  standing  on  a  West 
Virginia  mountain  ridge  that  are  worth 
all  the  counterfeits  I  am  going  to  see 
from  my  library  window  this  winter 
in  town  put  together.  And  in  plant- 
ing, why  will  so  many  people  persist 
in  trying  delicate  exotics  that  cannot 
possibly  do  any  good?  Build  your 
house  near  native  forest  trees  if  you 
can.  If  you  can't,  then  use  the  stock 
[8] 


'Cloudy  and  Colder' 


that  is  known  to  be  able  to  stand  your 
climate  and  thrive.  Why  torture  a 
dainty  cut-leaved  birch  or  a  beautiful 
beech  by  asking  it  to  drag  out  a  brief 
and  precarious  existence  under  condi- 
tions where  it  cannot  possibly  be 
happy?  And  so  with  shrubbery.  Draw 
on  the  roadside  and  the  tangled  wood- 
lots.  There  will  be  crab  apples  and 
thorns  and  sumacs,  wild  grapes  and 
creepers  that  will  respond  to  care,  and 
laugh  at  storms  and  drouths,  because 
they  come  of  an  ancestry  that  has 
accommodated  itself  to  that  which 
has  to  be  faced  each  recurring  winter 
and  summer.  Mark  some  of  these 
during  your  winter  walks,  and  maybe 
in  the  early  spring  you  can  at  light 
expense  transform  bare  or  unsightly 
places  into  attractive  pictures  later  on. 
Meantime  the  telephone  is  ringing: 
"Hello!  This  is  the  office.  Will  you 
be  in  tomorrow?" 

"No.    I  am  not  yet  through  closing 
up  the  place." 


In  Winter  Quarters 


"Well,  you  know  we  are  waiting  for 
that  editorial  stuff." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  I  have  300  tulip 
and  crocus  bulbs  to  put  in  yet,  and  the 
water  has  to  be  shut  off,  and  the  storm- 
windows  put  on  the  cottage,  and  we 
are  not  through  chopping  wood.  You 
know  we  have  to  leave  some  back-logs 
ready  for  use  next  April  when  we  open 
up  again." 

"When  will  you  be  in?" 

"Next  week." 

And  so  we  are  dragged  within  the 
city  walls.  Thus  do  we  pass  inside  the 
gates  that  swing  not  open  until  the  sun 
gets  back  from  Patagonia. 

As  we  turn  into  Lincoln  Park  West 
we  are  greeted  by  snow  flurries  blow- 
ing in  from  off  the  lake.  I  suppose  it  is 
time  we  were  back  in  town,  and  I  am 
thankful  for  this  evidence  that  winter 
is  here.  One  season  has  drifted  so  im- 
perceptibly into  another  that  I  scarcely 
realized  that  the  day  I  once  so  fondly 
anticipated  had  at  last  arrived.  I 
[10] 


"Cloudy  and  Colder" 


hope  the  ground  will  be  white  in  the 
morning. 

The  first  real  snowstorm  is  the  best. 
It  transforms  instantly  a  scene  of 
dreariness  into  a  wonderland  of  pure 
delight.  If  great  snowfalls  occurred  as 
seldom  as  the  eruptions !of  Aetna,  there 
would  not  be  Pullmans,  Fords  and 
airships  enough  to  transport  people 
across  continents  to  view  the  match- 
less beauty  of  the  weeds  and  woods,  the 
hen  roosts,  garbage  dumps  and  hovels 
all  glorified  by  its  presence.  That 
which  is  common  is  uninteresting. 
Virtue  has  to  be  its  own  reward;  vice 
holds  the  first  page,  and  gets  the  head- 
lines. 

Around  the  margin  of  the  park  la- 
goon next  morning  there  were  signs  of 
ice;  thin  crystals  clinging  to  the  half- 
frozen  earth  in  the  indentations  of  the 
shore  line,  sharp  as  spear  points  at  the 
tips  projected  towards  the  open  water, 
transparent  and  too  fragile  for  any 
handling.  Such  I  suppose  also  was  the 
In] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


inconsequential  original  beginning  of 
the  ice  sheet,  under  which  this  lower 
end  of  Lake  Michigan  once  awaited 
the  sun's  releasing  rays.  This  sheet 
extended  southward  some  two  or  three 
hundred  miles  from  what  is  now  the 
site  of  the  city  of  Chicago,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  have  had  a  slope  of  not  less 
than  25  feet  per  mile  towards  its  dis- 
tant center  in  the  north.  Its  thickness 
therefore  over  the  present  site  of  the 
Blackstone  must  have  been  something 
more  than  6,000  feet — well  over  a  mile; 
and  if  the  same  grade  obtained  all  the 
way  up  to  the  apex  the  summit  pre- 
sented the  dazzling  spectacle  of  an 
ice  peak  at  least  eight  miles  above  the 
level  of  the  seas.  Think  of  tobogganing 
down  a  hill  1,000  or  1,500  miles  long, 
and  coasting  all  the  way  down  the 
Mississippi  Valley  into  Yucatan!  I 
suppose  that  upon  some  such  tales  of 
real  old-fashioned  winter  sports  the 
gray-haired  cavemen  of  prehistoric 
times  regaled  the  cavedom  "kiddies" 
[12] 


''Cloudy  and  Colder" 


before  they  were  clubbed  to  bed  for 
the  night. 

On  my  way  back  from  the  Loop  this 
evening  to  the  cliff  in  which  we  dwell 
in  winter-time  I  left  the  car  at  Lin- 
coln's monument  for  a  walk  through 
the  park.  The  cold  wave  prognos- 
ticated by  the  Weather  Bureau  this 
time  had  not  been  side-tracked  on  its 
eastward  way,  as  often  happens  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Lake.  There  is  real 
oxygen  in  the  atmosphere.  Fifteen 
minutes  here  amidst  the  creaking 
branches  of  the  trees  I  am  sure  will 
change  the  color  of  one's  blood.  If 
you  want  an  ocular  demonstration  of 
your  own  circulatory  system  you  have 
only  to  look  at  those  elms  to  observe 
your  own  trunk  lines  and  capillaries. 
The  scheme  is  the  same  wherever  it  is 
studied.  Kinship  is  everywhere  ob- 
servable. There  are  five  big  cotton- 
woods  standing  in  a  clump.  Their 
roots,  as  well  as  their  highest  branches, 
are  closely  intermingled;  but  they 
[13] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


seem  to  be  dwelling  together  in  unity, 
each  adapting  itself  to  the  other, 
blending  splendidly  into  one  harmo- 
nious entity.  A  family  group  bound 
together  below,  and  interlacing  their 
lives  up  to  the  very  topmost  branches, 
I  suppose  they  have  their  arguments 
and  little  jars  both  in  the  ground  and 
in  the  air,  but  clearly  in  their  union  is 
their  strength.  Alexander  Hamilton 
could  not  have  made  a  better  job  of 
it. 

Darkness  settles  early  these  Decem- 
ber days,  and  there  will  be  ice  to- 
morrow where  those  shallow  pools 
have  been  today.  The  creatures  of  the 
open  will  know  tonight  what  Keats 
was  talking  about  on  St.  Agnes'  eve: 

"Ah!  Bitter  chill  it  was; 
The  owl  for  all  his  feathers  was  a-cold, 
The  hare  leaped  trembling  through  the 

frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  fleecy  fold." 

This  is  the  opening  of  the  trapping 
season,  and  unless  the  statutes  new 


''Cloudy  and  Colder' 


and  old  regulating  the  taking  of  our 
fur-bearing  friends  are  strictly  en- 
forced the  shortage  of  useful  pelts, 
now  so  apparent,  will  soon  become 
much  more  acute.  There  is  no  longer 
virgin  trapping  territory.  Not  even  in 
Alaska.  Even  in  that  remote  region 
the  beaver  and  the  marten  have  now  to 
be  protected  by  a  closed  season 
to  prevent  extermination.  Raccoon, 
mink,  muskrat,  otter,  and  even  the 
peerless  predatory  skunk,  now  find 
refuge  behind  strict  laws  in  various 
states.  The  killing  of  all  these  at  times 
when  their  pelts  are  not  prime  is 
little  less  than  a  crime  in  these  days 
of  high  cost  of  keeping  warm  in  the 
winter. 

In  a  cloudless,  moonless  sky  even 
the  glittering  stars  look  cold,  and  after 
a  day  spent  among  books  and  mail 
and  manuscripts  dealing  with  pastoral 
pursuits,  I  note  that  Taurus  and  Aries 
— or  in  plain  English  the  constellations 
known  as  the  bull  and  the  ram — are 
[15] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


shining  brightly  in  the  zenith.  Pega- 
sus, the  winged  horse,  is  flying  in  the 
west,  and  the  grandest  piece  of  jewelry 
we  mortals  shall  ever  see  hangs  re- 
splendent in  the  east.  If  you  don't 
know  what  it  is,  it  is  time  you  get  busy 
and  find  out.  And,  lest  we  forget, 
there  is  Perseus  almost  directly  over- 
head. But  of  him  we  are  to  speak 
again. 


16] 


II 

•    Rattling  the  Chains 

IN  my  next  incarnation,  if  I  have 
anything  to  say  about  it,  I  propose 
to  be  a  free-born  Mallard,  for  the  more 
one  studies  the  furred  and  feathered 
people  of  the  open  spaces  the  less  he  is 
apt  to  concede  the  alleged  vast  supe- 
riority of  men  over  their  fellow-inheri- 
tors of  the  earth.  I  do  not  desire  to  be 
written  down  a  heretic.  I  have  a  decent 
respect  I  hope  for  accepted  traditions 
about  our  having  been  given  "in  the 
beginning"  dominion  over  all;  but 
that  statement,  it  must  be  borne  in 
mind,  was  not  made  until  men  had 
already  been  on  the  earth  for  some  four 
hundred  thousand  years.  They  had 
therefore  ample  time  to  establish  might 


In  Winter  Quarters 


as  right  long  before  the  days  of  Moses 
and  the  prophets.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  it  will  be  early  enough  to  claim 
unlimited  sovereignty  over  the  rest  of 
creation  when  we  have  first  demon- 
strated capacity  to  run  our  own  affairs 
in  such  way  as  to  assure  to  each  that 
measure  of  happiness  which  is  the 
birthright  of  every  man  as  well  as  of 
every  chipmunk  and  purple  martin. 
And  my  observations  to  date  lead  me 
to  venture  the  statement  that  there  is 
more  real  joy  of  life  in  leafy  bowers, 
beneath  sunlit  waves,  in  mountain 
glades;  in  brief,  wherever  life  other 
than  human  runs  its  normal  course, 
than  is  found  inside  the  doors  of  mil- 
lions of  mere  men.  From  which  it  may 
be  inferred  that  I  believe  that  there 
are  many  lessons  to  be  clipped  with 
profit  from  our  own  old  Mother  Na- 
ture's book. 

There  certainly  are  times  and  occa- 
sions when  one  feels  like  asserting  that 
the  more  highly  civilized  we  become, 
[18! 


Rattling  the  Chains 


the  more  artificial  our  mode  of  living; 
the  more  man-made  laws  we  substitute 
for  Nature's,  the  more  grief  appar- 
ently overtakes  us.  The  whole  scheme 
being  in  many  respects  a  departure 
from  the  fundamental  laws  of  our  be- 
ing, naturally  an  unfailing  harvest  of 
disappointment  is  gathered  through- 
out the  earth.  If  under  the  established 
standards  and  conventions  it  requires 
four  million  different  statutes,  ordi- 
nances, courts,  jails,  asylums,  police- 
men, poor  farms,  tax-gatherers,  navy 
yards  and  training  camps  to  enforce 
our  man-made  mandates,  have  we  not 
reached  the  point  where  the  sooner 
we  are  wiped  off  the  planet  the  better? 
To  the  end  that  such  honest,  simple- 
minded  people  as  the  squirrels,  pigeons 
and  grass-roots  may  succeed  to  the 
Wilhelmstrasse,  the  Avenue  du  Bois, 
Trafalgar  Square,  Broadway,  the  Stock 
Yards  and  the  Senate. 

You  may  infer  from  this  that  I  am 
somewhat  of  a  rebel.    Well,  perhaps  I 
[19] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


am  potentially;  made  one  maybe  by 
long  observation  and  a  somewhat  ex- 
tended acquaintance  with  men  and 
other  mammals,  saying  nothing  of 
those  old  gray  willows  across  the  way 
and  the  tulip  bulbs  hibernating  in  the 
turf  beneath.  From  my  library  win- 
dow I  can  see  the  bare  branches  of  the 
trees  nodding  their  approval  this  De- 
cember day.  They  know  one  thing  at 
least:  that  "the  wind  bloweth  where 
it  listeth,"  and  if  those  wretched  home- 
sick Polar  bears  imprisoned  over  there 
behind  the  rocks  and  steel  of  the  Lin- 
coln Park  "zoo,"  swaying  from  side  to 
side  from  morn  till  night  in  endless 
misery,  were  to  be  asked  their  opinion 
of  the  ruling  race,  you  know  as  well 
as  I  that  their  comments  would  never 
pass  the  censor. 

I  understand  fully  that  such  obser- 
vations may  read  me  out  of  the  party. 
If  so,  I  shall  be  sorry.  Really  I  am  not 
yet  quite  a  cynic.  I  like  some  folks 
and  certain  of  their  ways.  However, 
[20] 


Rattling  the  Chains 


the  truth  is  out  of  my  system,  and  I 
shall  go  on  of  course,  just  as  you  will 
probably,  trying  as  best  poor  human 
nature  can  to  conform  to  arbitrary 
usages;  and  a  lot  of  the  rest  of  you, 
thinking  as  I  do  but  afraid  to  say  it, 
will  also  inwardly  rebel,  and  then  con- 
tinue on  your  pre-planned  course  to 
the  same  transformation  into  dust  that 
awaits  that  outlawed  but  vastly  freer 
sparrow  chattering  there  in  blissful 
innocence  upon  the  window  sill. 

What  is  the  occasion  of  this  out- 
burst? Well,  for  one  thing  I  suppose  I 
had  no  business  eating  that  kippered 
herring  set  before  me  at  the  breakfast 
table  this  morning.  It  never  did  agree 
with  me.  Besides,  why  pay  seventeen 
prices  for  something  hauled  halfway 
across  the  continent  over  tracks  cost- 
ing $75,000  per  mile,  when  it  only 
upsets  digestion  after  you  get  it;  and 
all  this,  too,  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that 
my  neighbor  out  there  in  the  country 
puts  up  as  fine  a  grade  of  breakfast 
[21] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


bacon,  grown  right  here  at  home,  as 
any  epicure  could  covet.  And  anyone 
with  half-sense  knows  that  thin  slices 
of  that,  broiled  until  just  approaching 
the  crispy  stage,  may  be  eaten  with 
impunity  even  by  babes !  More  than  all 
this,  however,  there  remains  the  really 
distressing  fact  that  I  had  to  close 
up  Dumbiedykes,  and  move  Novem- 
ber first  into  a  steam-heated  city  flat 
for  the  winter,  and  to  this  I  was  cer- 
tainly a  conscientious  objector.  I  quit 
the  open  country  under  violent  inward 
protest.  That  much  I  certainly  admit. 
There  was  not  sun  enough  inside  those 
walls,  no  open  fire,  and  you  see  if  I  had 
only  been  a  Mallard  I  would  not  have 
been  compelled  to  accept  surroundings 
of  this  sort.  This  wide  wild  world 
would  have  then  been  mine;  the  sky, 
the  sea,  the  air,  the  land,  my  heritage! 
"Thou  shalt  not"  would  not  then  for 
me  be  posted  every  fifteen  feet  to  force 
the  folding  of  unfettered  wings.  But, 
not  being  a  Mallard  yet,  my  life  is  not 
[22] 


Rattling  the  Chains 


altogether  of   my  own   ordering.     In 
fact,  far  from  it. 

Our  "duty"  is  denned  for  us  by  cir- 
cumstances beyond  our  own  control. 
Generations  gone  before  have  laid  down 
the  law.  Presumably  whatever  is  is 
right.  At  any  rate,  it  does  little  good 
to  raise  the  question.  That  clever 
Spaniard  Ibanez  has  expressed  this 
thought  in  his  title  "The  Dead  Com- 
mand." We  may  not  go  our  way  even 
along  peaceful  lines  free  from  the  lash 
that  others  ply  incessantly.  Our  breth- 
ren claim  that  right,  and  exercise  it 
mercilessly  notwithstanding  the  scrip- 
tural injunction,  "Judge  not  lest  ye  be 
judged."  People  with  heads  not  shaped 
like  mine,  and  with  hearts,  stomachs, 
legs,  hopes,  aspirations  and  ideals  dif- 
fering wholly  in  character  and  strength 
from  mine,  dictate  what  I  am  expected 
to  do  or  not  do;  basing  their  declara- 
tion of  course  upon  the  working  of 
their  own  brains  and  livers,  not  mine. 
If  I  fail  to  observe  their  conclusions  as 
[23] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


to  what  I  may  do,  or  not  do,  or  should 
do,  I  shall  be  called  to  strict  account. 
So  what  remains?  Why  just  "con- 
form" of  course,  insofar  as  your  own 
limitations  will  permit,  and,  if  you 
can,  forget  the  Mallards  and  the  Big 
Horn  standing  proudly  on  his  moun- 
tain crag.  Civilization  is  vastly  more 
interested  in  those  timid  old  Merino 
ewes  being  herded  over  there  in  that 
Government  Forest  Reserve.  I  wish 
I  might  talk  as  freely  and  frankly  as 
Montaigne  or  Rousseau  about  some 
things;  but  one  may  not  even  find 
pleasure  in  watching  with  Thoreau  a 
marsh-hawk's  flight  without  some  self- 
appointed  Lowell  landing  heavily  upon 
his  back. 

There  are  some  few  concessions  at 
least  to  be  truly  thankful  for.  I  do 
not  yet  have  to  buy  the  right  to  view 
the  landscape,  or  take  a  walk,  so  long 
as  I  keep  off  the  property  men  say 
belongs  to  you.  If  my  licensed  dog  is 
with  me  it  will  be  advisable,  however, 

[24] 


Rattling  the  Chains 


here  in  town  to  hold  him  well  in  leash. 
He  can't  chase  himself  through  the 
flower-beds  and  shrubbery  as  he  would 
dearly  love  to  do.  That  is  of  course 
forbidden.  Then,  too,  here  where  I 
live  during  the  months  when  Sol  is 
slowly  working  his  way  back  into  the 
North,  I  may  still  stroll  through  the 
great  park  opposite  where  aged  cotton- 
woods  are  waving  their  denuded  tops 
majestically  in  the  wintry  wind,  with- 
out being  arrested;  that  is,  if  I  can  take 
time  at  a  reasonable  hour  away  from 
the  sanctum  down  in  the  grimy,  noisy, 
iron-bound  "loop."  One  may  even 
stop  and  admire  those  graceful  elms 
without  being  told  to  "move  on;"  and 
if  your  eye  be  quick  enough  you  may 
detect  once  in  a  while  a  downy  wood- 
pecker using  his  quick  and  microscopic 
eyes,  let  us  hope  with  good  effect,  upon 
the  wrinkled  trunks  and  sturdier 
branches  overhead.  Indeed,  from 
where  I  sit  there  are  two  views,  the 
one  inside  the  windows  and  the  other 


In  Winter  Quarters 


out,  which  I  may  dwell  upon,  accord- 
ing to  my  mood,  without  a  meter 
marking  up  the  minutes  I  am  thus 
engaged. 

Outside  there  are  tree-tops,  tree- 
tops  everywhere.  They  are  not  the 
oaks  of  Dumbiedykes,  but  their  myriad 
interlacing  arms,  sharply  outlined 
against  a  leaden  sky,  are  weaving 
waving  pictures  that  only  a  "movie" 
camera  properly  placed  could  catch. 
And  now  and  then,  when  the  lights 
and  shadows  are  just  right,  dim  vistas 
of  the  distant  heaving  bosom  of  the 
lake  project  themselves  into  the  finest 
etching  in  Chicago.  No  extra  charge 
for  that — except  in  the  form  of  the 
ample  rent  I  have  to  pay  for  the  blessed 
right  to  be  as  near  to  Nature  as  is 
humanly  possible  in  town. 

Inside  the  walls  I  can  look  into  the 
minds  of  a  lot  of  congenial  people, 
mostly  bound  in  calf.  A  "  baby  grand  " 
piano  and  Victrola  stand  ready  always 
to  bring  the  solace  or  stimulus  of 

[26] 


Rattling  the  Chains 


symphony  or  "rag"  to  supplement  the 
saving  grace  of  literature.  The  Black 
Swan  andirons  are  not  here,  and  the 
rustling  of  their  fiery  wings  these 
winter  days  and  nights  is  sadly  missed, 
but  the  ghost  of  a  boy  who  saw  things 
long  ago  that  others  did  not  always 
see  has  found  for  me  a  partial  sub- 
stitute. 


[27] 


Ill 

Perseus  or  Pugilist? 

A^D  now  I  wonder  would  you  care 
at  all  to  know  what  fills  for  me  at 
times  the  void  occasioned  by  the  ab- 
sence of  the  open  fire?  An  inexpensive 
picture.  That  is  all.  And  only  a 
photograph  at  that.  I  think  it  cost  me 
about  $2.50  originally.  I  bought  it, 
along  with  its  two  companion-pieces, 
in  a  little  shop  in  the  Via  Sistina,  many 
years  ago,  and  will  tell  you  frankly 
that  the  group  attracts  not  half  as 
much  attention  hanging  over  my  study 
door  as  do  other  prints  upon  the  walls. 
There  is  a  little  etching,  for  instance, 
of  Chateau  Thierry,  showing  the  old 
bridge  over  the  Marne,  that  is  full  of 
meaning  now  to  all  Americans.  There 
[29] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


is  another  of  the  ancient  "  Street  of  the 
Clock"  in  Rouen,  that  appeals  un- 
failingly to  my  imagination.  Then 
there  is  a  really  nice  example  of  Hedley 
Fitten's  handiwork  hanging  just  be- 
hind me  as  I  write.  It  talks  by  the 
hour  of  Guelph  and  Ghibbeline,  Cel- 
lini and  Boccaccio;  of  all  the  wealth  of 
song  and  story  that  the  fair  city  of  the 
Arno  poured  out  into  the  world.  The 
Loggia  dei  Lanzi  in  old  Firenze!  Then, 
too,  a  softly  tinted  rare  old  view  of 
Windsor  Castle  sometimes  calls  for 
comment.  But  the  masterpiece,  the 
presiding  genius  of  the  little  room  of 
which  I  speak,  my  Perseus,  is  seldom 
noticed;  save  by  some  dreamer  of 
dreams — some  visionary  non-conform- 
ist probably  like  myself. 

I  know  little  enough  about  art  in 
any  technical  sense.  But  I  know  its 
power.  I  can  feel  its  presence.  We 
know  that  it  forms  the  connecting  link 
between  ourselves  and  the  universe  of 
which  we  are  all  a  part,  and  that  the 
[30] 


Perseus  or  Pugilist? 


subtle  something  for  which  it  stands 
effectively  promotes  the  aspirations  of 
mankind  for  something  more  than  food 
and  drink.  We  know  that  unnumbered 
thousands  see  or  care  for  little  appar- 
ently beyond  mere  creature  comforts. 
We  know  that  the  fight  for  food,  more 
acres,  bonds  or  power  over  our  fellow- 
men,  obsesses  most  of  us,  just  as  corre- 
sponding ambitions  and  desires  sway 
the  actions  of  Poland-China  pigs.  The 
merely  physical  still  rides  its  rough- 
shod way. 

I  love  the  colors  of  a  rainbow  hang- 
ing in  a  dripping  atmosphere  and  the 
dainty  petals  of  the  humblest  wild 
flower  in  the  woods,  but  could  write 
no  thesis  on  prismatic  tints,  on  sta- 
mens or  corollas.  We  marvel  at  old 
Sirius  and  Arcturus  as  they  lead  the 
winter  or  the  summer  stars  across  the 
sky,  but  some  astronomer  will  have  to 
tell  us  when  bright  Rigel  rises  or  Cap- 
ella  sets.  Anyone  may  catch  the 
majesty  of  the  Parthenon  or  Notre 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Dame,  but  few  will  venture  to  talk 
pediments  or  flying  buttresses  to  archi- 
tects. I  hear  the  entire  pathetic  story 
of  "Thais"  in  that  soul-sweeping 
"Meditation,"  but  some  one  else  will 
have  to  write  of  symphonies,  chro- 
matic scales  and  orchestration.  Any- 
one may  stand  uncovered  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  immortal  canvasses  and 
marbles  of  the  world  of  art,  but  not 
every  one  can  tell  the  story  of  either 
Leonardo  or  Praxiteles. 

You  therefore  who  understand  the 
sculptor's  art,  that  power  supreme  of 
calling  forth  the  spirits  that  dwell  all 
unknown  to  common  folk  within  the 
rough  Carrara  blocks,  spare  me  your 
all-unnecessary  anathemas  when  I  con- 
fess that  to  my  own  untutored  mind 
the  greatest  statue  in  the  world  is  just 
Canova's  Perseus ;  that  my  large  photo 
of  it  is  my  one  chief  household  god, 
and  I  do  not  care  to  have  my  idol 
broken.  It  matters  little  to  the  world 
that  this  is  so.  But  it  means  a  lot  to 


Perseus  or  Pugilist? 


me,  and  if  it  helps  me,  it  may  help 
others  too  perhaps  in  some  inscrutable 
or  some  small  inconsequential  way.  I 
am  not  unfamiliar  with  the  more 
ancient  and  more  effeminate  Apollo 
Belvedere.  I  have  seen  him  also  in 
that  niche  of  his  within  the  splendid 
galleries  of  the  Vatican;  and  it  is  in 
that  self-same  room,  beneath  that  same 
historic  roof,  you  may  find  the  lithe 
and  militant  Perseus  and  his  perfect 
foils,  the  pair  of  brutish,  big-necked 
pugilists  standing  by  his  side.  This 
group  Canova  gave  the  human  race  to 
show  a  world  that  sadly  needs  the 
thought,  the  grace,  and  power  of  spirit- 
ual as  compared  with  purely  physical 
attributes,  the  infinite  superiority  of 
mind  over  matter,  the  radiant  glories 
of  the  inspired  ideal  and  the  ponderous 
earthiness  of  unanimated  flesh. 

You  may  read  the  Persean  allegory 

in   any  Greek  mythology.     You  will 

know  without  the  telling  that  the  tale 

is  clearly  in  its  essence  but  the  story  of 

[33] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  triumph  of  good  over  evil;  the 
eternal  supremacy  of  the  powers  of 
light  over  the  demons  of  darkness.  If 
you  were  to  see  my  photograph  you 
might  or  you  might  not  catch  the 
shining  beauty  of  the  figure,  instinct 
with  life,  poised  ready  for  any  flight; 
his  feet  not  glued  to  earth  as  are  those 
of  common  clay.  Plainly  he  relies  not 
on  a  burly  body  for  his  superior  power. 
His  •  the  resistless  strength  that  flows 
perennially  from  contact  with  and 
understanding  of  the  Universal  Force! 
Mark  the  ethereal  ease!  The  tenuous 
grace!  The  obvious  incarnation  of 
beneficent,  unfettered  power!  Exalted 
and  refined  beyond  description! 

Men  need  not  all  be  brutes,  and 
those  who  are  so  inclined  might  profit 
by  a  study  of  this  pagan  Perseus.  It 
seems  difficult  for  preachers  to  lead 
you  to  Christ  for  an  example.  Maybe 
some  inkling  as  to  what  the  divine  fire 
really  means  in  man  could  be  gathered 
from  the  contemplation  of  a  statue, 
[34] 


Perseus  or  Pugilist? 


which  I  had  rather  own  than  possess  a 
deed  in  fee  simple  to  Chicago  city.  The 
one  would  lift  me  up  sometimes.  The 
other  frequently  depresses.  And  if  the 
Italian  Government  could  only  be  in- 
duced to  let  us  have  this  marble  group 
in  full  payment  of  its  war  loans  from 
the  United  States,  and  if  some  Ogden 
Armour  would  then  give  a  million 
dollars  to  be  expended  upon  the  build- 
ing of  a  worthy  Pantheon  to  house  the 
figures,  facing  the  Auditorium  on  the 
Boulevard,  some  real  conception  of  the 
higher  things  of  life  might  be  brought 
home  to  this  big-bodied,  busy,  sordid, 
money-grubbing  town. 

The  average  man  seems  to  be  about 
nine-tenths  physical  and  maybe  one- 
tenth  mental.  He  is  so  busy  catering 
to  the  former  that  he  has  no  time  to 
bother  with  the  latter.  Not  content 
with  living  upon  the  food  that  produces 
itself  all  around  him,  not  content  with 
clothing  himself  with  materials  near  at 
hand,  he  sets  out  to  scour  the  remotest 
[351 


In  Winter  Quarters 


corners  of  the  earth  for  new  dishes  to 
placate  or  damage  his  stomach,  or  new 
fabrics  with  which  to  deck  his  person. 
To  this  end  he  organizes  business — big 
business.  To  this  end  he  creates  what 
he  calls  commerce.  To  this  end  banks, 
railways,  steamships,  telegraphs.  To 
this  end  all  the  complicated  machinery 
of  modern  industry.  Hence  a  thou- 
sand grocers  to  one  geologist;  ten 
thousand  plumbers  to  one  poet;  an 
army  of  meat-cutters  escorted  by  a  few 
musicians !  Millions  at  Washington  for 
artillery ;  not  one  cent  for  art !  It  is  glor- 
ious, is  it  not,  to  see  Willard's  bloody 
face  after  Dempsey  has  "landed,"  but 
I  never  saw  any  mob  fighting  for  places 
to  see  "The  Dying  Gaul"  in  bronze. 
Perseus  exerts  upon  me  always  an 
uplifting  influence.  I  wish  you  all 
might  see  him;  for  like  the  flaming  logs 
of  an  open  fire  he  has  the  power  to 
carry  me  in  fancy  over  Hyperborean 
seas,  across  Libyan  sands,  and  up  the 
towering  heights  of  Helicon  itself. 

1 36] 


Perseus  or  Pugilist? 


Just  why  I  cannot  fully  analyze.  All 
I  know  is  that  he  does.  But  if  by 
chance  you  should  be  curious  enough 
about  it  to  order  a  copy  from  your 
dealer,  do  not  fail  to  ask  for  all  three 
of  the  figures.  The  spirit-beauty  of 
the  demi-god  is  clearly  emphasized  by 
reason  of  its  utter  absence  in  the 
pugilists.  So  in  this  group  I  find  the 
underlying  basis  of  my  protest,  and 
realize  its  hopelessness.  Mortal  men 
are  merely  clay,  and  will  never  be  any- 
thing else.  They  will  therefore  con- 
tinue beating  one  another  up  in  spite 
of  laws  and  Leagues — or  else  by  virtue 
of  them — until  the  judgment  day,  and 
incidentally  kill  bluebirds  to  their 
hearts'  content 

Canova's  super-man  is  but  a  master's 
marble  dream.  Still  peace  and  rest  and 
hope  are  sometimes  found  in  dreams. 
The  trouble  is  we  commonly  awake 
only  to  be  confronted  somewhere  by 
the  Gorgon  head  that  turns  our  noblest 
aspirations  into  stone. 

[37] 


IV 

Seeing  Things 

BROWSING  around  in  the  library 
the  other  day,  I  came  across  some 
old  school  books  that  had  somehow 
survived  the  wreckage  of  several  differ- 
ent homes.  Such  household  effects  as 
carpets,  rugs,  beds,  chairs,  bureaus, 
"high-boys,"  dishes,  draperies,  dogs, 
cats,  canaries  and  gold  fish  do  not 
always  live  through  family  hegiras 
and  mutations,  but  books — old  school 
books  in  particular — seem  to  have  nine 
lives.  A  really  human  interest  attaches 
to  them  because  certain  individual 
characteristics  are  in  most  cases  in- 
delibly stamped  upon  them;  and  these, 
viewed  in  after  years,  in  the  light  of 
subsequent  developments,  are  often 

[39] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


more  or  less,  illuminating.  The  owner 
in  this  case  is  still  living,  and  I  am 
well  acquainted  with  him.  He  doesn't 
know  half  as  much  now  as  he  did  when 
he  first  graduated,  but  is  still  studying, 
and  is  firmly  of  the  opinion  that  by  the 
time  he  is  forced  to  stop  he  will  have 
reached  the  point  where  a  little  real 
knowledge  might  begin  to  be  accumu- 
lated. But  when  the  old  school  bell 
called  him  for  the  last  time  with  these 
books  he  honestly  thought  his  educa- 
tion was  finished.  Interesting-  to  fall 
upon  an  old  spelling  book  that  once 
occupied  a  real  place  in  the  life  of  some- 
one you  have  known,  isn't  it? 

The  owner  of  these  old  books  had 
one  obvious  obsession :  Each  and  every 
big  round  O  appearing  on  the  title 
pages  had  been  transformed  into  a 
face  with  eyes,  nose  and  mouth  duly 
inserted  inside  the  circle,  with  a  pair 
of  ears  on  the  outside.  The  latter  were 
sometimes  small  and  placed  human- 
fashion  at  the  sides  of  the  O,  but  more 
[40] 


Seeing  Things 


frequently  on  top,  in  which  case  they 
were  apt  to  be  of  generous  height  and 
pointed.  The  mouth  was  always  of 
cavernous  dimensions,  and  curved 
sharply  upward  at  each  end,  giving  the 
creatures  thus  called  forth  from  their 
typographical  ova  a  bland  and  smiling 
countenance.  If  there  happened  to 
be  space  enough  on  either  side  of  these 
big  O's  an  elongated  body  was  fitted 
up  against  the  face,  to  which  four  legs 
were  attached;  the  front  ones  projected 
well  forward,  and  the  hind  ones  ex- 
tended far  toward  the  rear,  giving  a 
certain  effect  of  exceeding  all  known 
speed  limits.  A  gaily  up-curved 
tail  of  generous  proportions,  in- 
variably thrown  well  forward  over 
the  quadruped's  back,  completed  this 
somewhat  startling  delineation  of  a 
wildcat  or  some  other  moon-faced 
nondescript  tearing  through  space  with 
its  grinning  face,  broadside  on  as  it 
galloped  along  on  its  apparently  happy 
way,  across  the  title  page  of  some 
[41] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


well-worn  grammar  or  arithmetic. 
The  fact  is  the  boy  was  known  to 
have  a  sort  of  mania  for  discovering 
faces  in  all  sorts  of  unexpected  places : 
sometimes  in  the  fire;  sometimes  in 
clouds;  sometimes  in  the  rocks;  some- 
times in  the  trees ;  sometimes  in  flowers ; 
sometimes  here;  sometimes  there,  but 
always  and  forever  he  was  finding 
pictures  that  were  apparently  over- 
looked by  'most  other  people.  And  it 
was  rarely  he  took  the  trouble  to  ask 
anyone  else  to  try  to  see  what  he  was 
seeing.  Sometimes  after  a  lot  of  ex- 
planation someone  would  grudgingly 
agree,  but  more  frequently  on  such 
occasions  he  would  be  told  he  was 
crazy,  and  that  there  was  nothing  there 
at  all.  This  he  resented  because  he 
knew  better;  and  when  something  of 
particular  interest  appeared  he  felt 
very  sorry  sometimes  because  com- 
panions did  not  share  with  him  the 
humor  of  some  visionary  gargoyle's 
grinning  countenance,  the  elusive 


Seeing  Things 


witchery  of  a  vapory  profile  in  the  sky, 
the  majesty  of  some  stately  statue  on 
the  distant  hills,  or  maybe  a  queer 
expression  painted  on  a  pansy's  petals 
by  the  sunshine  and  the  rain. 

He  made  friends,  too,  in  the  woods. 
Faces  were  found  where  knot-holes 
scarred  the  trunks  of  trees.  Outlines 
of  birds  and  beasts  were  seen  along 
the  banks  where  bluebells  and  in- 
finitely dainty  lady-slippers  blossomed 
in  the  early  spring.  And  how  happy 
he  used  to  be  when  near  some  moist, 
warm  spot  the  first  "Dutchman's 
breeches"  were  hung  out  on  the  line 
by  some  fond  waking  mother!  He 
caught  its  close  resemblance  to  the 
bleeding  heart  of  everybody's  culti- 
vated garden,  and  while  he  laughed  at 
the  singular  appropriateness  of  its 
common  name  he  always  felt  that  who- 
ever first  called  it  "fat-man's  trousers" 
was  guilty  of  a  most  atrocious  offense 
against  one  of  the  first  and  fairest  of  all 
the  northern  wildwood's  gifts. 
[43] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


As  a  lad  he  was  of  course  familiar 
with  the  old  proposition  that  if  one 
were  to  journey  to  the  spot  where  the 
ends  of  rainbows  touch  the  earth  he 
would  be  rewarded  with  a  pot  of  gold. 
For  a  long  time  he  took  this  very 
seriously,  and  often  tried  to  figure  out 
just  how  many  miles  away  this  would 
lead  him  if  he  actually  set  out  to  get 
the  coveted  treasure,  of  the  existence 
of  which  he  had  not  the  slightest 
doubt.  But  I  do  not  remember  that 
he  ever  really  started  on  any  of  these 
projected  expeditions.  He  has  since 
discovered,  nevertheless,  that  some 
rainbows  bring  to  those  who  under- 
stand them  more  than  gold. 

His  facility  for  finding  hidden  quali- 
ties and  real  companionships  in  almost 
everything  from  crickets  to  constella- 
tions has  never  been  altogether  lost, 
and  its  exercise  has  often  proved  a 
better  sedative  than  bromides.  It 
pays  sometimes  to  turn  one's  back  on 
men  and  study  the  antics  of  an  ant, 
[44] 


Seeing  Things 


even  though  you  draw  with  Mark 
Twain  the  conclusion  that  the  busy 
insect's  fabled  wisdom  is  a  myth. 
You  may  watch  cats  or  catbirds  by 
the  hour  and  see  something  new  about 
their  mental  processes  nearly  every 
minute.  And  if  you  know  when  and 
where  to  look  for  the  first  trilliurn  or 
the  rising  of  Orion  you  will  have 
found  unselfish  friends  outside  the 
daily  grind  that  it  will  pay  to  cultivate. 
And  there  is  worse  company  in  this 
world  than  that  of  yellow  corn-blades 
rustling  in  the  late  September  breeze. 
Among  these  other  relics  of  this 
boy's  youth  I  found  an  old  green- 
backed  Harkness  Latin  reader,  made 
up  mainly  of  selections  in  simple  classic 
language  from  ancient  fables.  Its  pages 
are  nearly  all  more  or  less  disfigured 
with  all  manner  of  lead  pencil  nota- 
tions. The  blank  leaves  that  book- 
binders seem  to  regard  as  necessary  in 
the  front  and  back  of  every  volume 
were  apparently  greater  favorites  with 
[45] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  owner  than  those  that  carried  his 
lessons;  being  filled  with  names  of 
playmates  or  quotations  or  comment 
of  some  sort  on  whatever  happened  to 
be,  at  the  moment,  in  his  thoughts. 
The  star  line,  however,  scrawled  in 
big  letters  with  a  lead  pencil  in  the 
front  of  the  Latin  reader  is:  "Silens 
Aqua  Currit  Alta." 

While  the  sentiment  underlying  this 
was  of  course  far  from  original,  the 
Latin  was  his  own,  and  he  never  took 
the  trouble  to  ask  any  real  scholar  how 
far  he  had  missed  his  way  in  trying  to 
Romanize  a  hackneyed  phrase.  The 
old  superintendent  of  the  school  was  in 
the  habit  of  going  around  from  one 
room  to  another  hearing  lessons  at 
different  hours  in  various  studies.  He 
was  the  kindliest  old  soul  that  ever 
lived;  wore  long  whiskers  becoming 
silvered  toward  the  last;  and  was  pro- 
fessor of  everything.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  he  did  not  know  a  lot  more  about 
Latin  than  the  children  he  piloted 

[46] 


Seeing  Things 


through  the  first  declensions,  and  when 
one  day,  in  response  to  a  previously 
preferred  request,  each  pupil  had  to 
rise  in  turn  and  express  in  the  ancient 
tongue  some  " motto"  or  sentiment  of 
his  or  her  own  selection,  this  boy 
worked  off  the  line  he  had  written 
carefully  down  in  his  book,  for  fear  he 
would  forget  it  at  the  critical  moment. 
He  had  not  thought  of  the  incident 
for  many  years  until  he  saw  the  old 
green-backed  book  this  afternoon,  but 
is  still  prepared  to  stand  by  the  proposi- 
tion that  "still  waters  run  high"  as  well 
as  deep. 

That  book  brought  his  first  ac- 
quaintance with  ^Esop,  and  he  has  a 
very  vivid  recollection  of  the  impres- 
sion made  by  the  story  of  the  boy  who 
smilingly  denied  having  stolen  a  fox 
which  he  had  concealed  inside  his 
tunic,  even  while  Reynard  was  gnaw- 
ing at  his  very  vitals.  Of  course  he 
missed  the  point  of  the  fable  at  the 
time.  He  loved  the  ^Esopian  gossip 
[47] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


about  what  all  the  different  animals 
said  and  did,  but  when  the  story  was 
ended,  and  the  inevitable  lesson  was 
to  be  impressed,  his  interest  rapidly 
waned.  He  was  not  specially  con- 
cerned in  those  days  with  the  morals 
drawn  by  the  wise  old  Greek  from  these 
simple  tales,  but  he  now  understands 
the  story  of  the  Spartan  youth,  for  he 
has  since  seen  people  trying  hard  to 
smile  when  something  the  world  could 
not  see  was  evidently  gnawing  out 
their  hearts.  He  has  known  some  who 
have  failed  and  fallen  in  their  tracks 
because  they  could  not  free  themselves 
from  that  which  was  destroying  them; 
and  so  has  passed  the  point  of  pro- 
nouncing judgments  that  may  be  harsh 
as  well  as  hastily  and  incorrectly 
formed. 

The  storm  tonight  is  making  fairy- 
land of  all  the  landscape,  and  inci- 
dentally working  heavy  damage  to  the 
overloaded  branches  of  the  trees  and 
shrubbery.  Electric  lamps  are  gleam- 

148] 


Seeing  Things 


ing  brightly  down  the  winding  road- 
ways. Most  of  my  evening  has  been 
spent  watching  the  flying  flakes  settling 
silently  in  the  leafless  wood.  On  such 
a  night  old  Santa  used  to  ride,  and 
children  tucked  away  in  soft,  warm 
feather  beds  dreamed  of  the  coming 
of  their  one  great  day  of  all  the  year. 
I  have  forgotten  all  the  gifts  one  boy 
received  one  Christmas  morning,  but 
I  know  there  was  a  sled  with  white 
swan  heads  in  front,  gay  with  paint, 
and  carrying  on  its  back  the  legend 
"Snow  Bird."  And  it  lived  up  to  its 
name  through  many  a  joyous  hour 
upon  the  hills.  And  skates!  Yes,  the 
kind  you  used  to  see— wood,  shod  with 
steel,  curved  up  in  front.  Out  south 
of  town  there  was  a  marsh  where 
muskrats  had  their  homes,  where  boys 
could  find  red  cheeks  and  great  ad- 
venture! The  river,  too,  was  near,  and 
up  and  down  its  winding  course,  where 
the  willows,  oaks  and  sycamores  were 
waiting  for  the  spring,  a  noisy  lot 

[49] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


equipped  with  good  stout  clubs  con- 
tested fiercely  for  a  block  of  wood  in  a 
rattling  good  old-fashioned  game  that 
need  not  here  be  named.  And  on  the 
bank  a  fire  of  leaves  and  twigs  and 
sticks  and  stumps  and  old  dry  logs 
sent  up  its  incense  to  the  happy  skies 
of  youth. 


v. 

A  Governor's  Gift 

IT  was  not  all  play  for  the  boys  of 
that  community.  Like  the  colts 
among  which  they  were  reared,  they 
were  taken  in  hand  early,  and  made 
to  feel  the  weight  of  light  harness — 
which  with  most  of  us  is  quite  soon 
enough  exchanged  for  the  heavy  gear 
with  which  real  loads  have  always  to 
be  hauled,  and  this  is  the  story  of  how 
one  boy's  "breaking  in"  was  under- 
taken. The  beginning  of  it  he  remem- 
bers as  well  as  if  the  words  had  but 
yesterday  been  spoken: 

"Take  this,  my  son,  and  hoe  your 
way  through  the  world  with  it." 

The  speaker  was  a  distinguished- 
looking,  elderly  man;  the  place  a  hard- 


In  Winter  Quarters 


ware  store  in  a  little  country  town  in 
a  mid-west  state;  the  time  many  years 
ago;  the  article  alluded  to  a  child's 
toy  hoe,  modeled  on  the  regulation 
garden  pattern.  As  to  the  youngster's 
identity,  that  is  a  matter  that  would 
interest  nobody  in  particular.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  he  has  been  hoeing  hard 
ever  since;  in  fact,  is  still  working  his 
way  down  a  long,  long  row,  the  farther 
end  of  which  is  now  coming  into  view. 
And  as  he  hoes  sometimes  he  talks ;  not 
always  to  any  special  purpose,  and  not 
often  with  any  profit  to  himself  or 
anybody  else,  but  at  times  he  finds  a 
certain  degree  of  satisfaction  in  trying 
to  get  in  touch  with  others  who  may 
have  been  compelled,  as  he  was  from 
the  beginning,  to  walk  and  hoe,  in- 
stead of  ride  and  go  where  fancy  or 
inclination  might  suggest;  only  there 
are  probably  not  many  who  will  care  to 
follow  him. 

Alvin  Saunders,  whose  words  quoted 
above  were  addressed  to  a  small  boy 

152] 


A  Governors  Gift 


on  a  certain  memorable  occasion,  was 
the  Civil  War  Governor  of  the  state  of 
Nebraska,  one  of  a  strong  group  of 
Unionist  executives  that  included  such 
towering  figures  as  Samuel  Kirkwood 
of  Iowa,  Richard  Yates  of  Illinois,  and 
Oliver  P.  Morton  of  Indiana — men 
who  held  their  respective  states  firmly 
in  line  for  the  policies  for  which  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  stood,  in  the  face  of  the 
under-currents  of  opposition  set  in 
motion  by  sympathizers  with  the 
Southern  Confederacy  residing  in  these 
and  adjacent  states,  well  organized 
under  the  name  of  Knights  of  the 
Golden  Circle.  The  Nebraska  Gover- 
nor had  retired  to  private  life  after 
the  close  of  the  War  of  Secession;  and 
it  was  not  many  years  after  Grant 
had  handed  back  Lee's  sword  at 
Appomattox  that  there  was  placed  in 
boyish  hands  the  symbol  of  honorable 
service  represented  by  the  tiny  garden 
tool  already  mentioned,  and  at  a  later 
date  Governor  Saunders  was  sent  by 

[53] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  state  he  had  already  served  so 
well  to  the  United  States  Senate.  The 
occasion  of  his  presenting  this  boy  with 
the  little  hoe,  and  the  situation  that 
drew  forth  the  injunction  that  was 
passed  with  it,  arose  from  the  fact  that 
the  boy  had  been  named  for  the 
Governor,  and  he  took  that  method  of 
acknowledging  this  action  on  the  part 
of  the  boy's  father,  who  was  a  distant 
relative.  One  branch  of  the  family  had 
injected  an  extra  vowel  into  the  spell- 
ing of  the  tribal  designation,  which  I 
should  say  was  corrupting  a  really 
sound  old  Anglo-Saxon  name. 

The  prospective  visit  of  the  Gover- 
nor to  this  boy's  father's  modest  home 
had  been  a  topic  of  conversation  around 
the  family  fireside  for  some  time.  It 
was  no  ordinary  honor  that  was  to  be 
bestowed.  The  great  man  had  never 
seen  his  little  namesake,  and  had,  it 
seems,  signified  his  intention  of  coming 
for  that  purpose,  and  incidentally  of 
course  to  renew  a  personal  acquaint- 

[54] 


A  Governor's  Gift 


ance  and  friendship  with  the  parents. 
And  so  it  chanced  that  the  boy's  first 
knowledge  of  what  sort  of  thing  a 
"Governor"  really  was  came  to  him 
when  he  was  probably  six  years  old. 
He  had  heard  a  lot  about  the  Gover- 
nor's coming,  but  when  the  great  day 
arrived  he  relished  not  at  all  the  idea 
of  meeting  it  face  to  face.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  boy  had  never  been  more 
thoroughly  alarmed  than  on  that  fate- 
ful afternoon.  He  avoided  the  house 
as  the  hour  drew  near,  but  presently 
he  knew  that  the  Governor  was  in  the 
parlor.  That  sanctuary  was  not  opened 
up  in  those  days  except  upon  state 
occasions,  of  which  this  was  of  course 
a  most  important  one.  I  suppose  the 
black  haircloth  on  the  chairs  might 
have  been  damaged  if  light  were  ad- 
mitted. The  green  "shutters"  were 
drawn  as  usual,  but,  determined  to 
get  some  sort  of  preliminary  notion  of 
whatever  was  now  inside  before  having 
to  undergo  the  ordeal  of  meeting  it, 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  boy  cautiously  peered  in  through 
the  window-slats,  and  made  one  of  his 
first  great  discoveries.  A  Governor  was 
"nothing  but  a  man."  He  was  really 
disappointed,  as  well  as  more  or  less 
disgusted,  and  promptly  so  informed 
his  mother. 

The  fact  is  he  had  not  been  given  any 
information  upon  the  subject.  It  had 
been  taken  for  granted  that  any  child 
would  know  without  telling  what  a 
Governor  was,  but  unfortunately  this 
one  didn't.  He  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  as  to  whether  it  had  two  wheels 
or  six.  Or  whether  it  walked  or 
crawled.  Anyhow,  he  found  out,  at 
least  about  this  particular  one,  and  this 
is  what  happened:  The  Governor  and 
the  father  were  great  friends.  The 
guest  stayed  all  night,  and  the  last 
thing  the  boy  remembered  when  sent 
to  bed  was  hearing  them  threshing  out 
the  Civil  War.  Next  morning  he  was 
invited  to  go  to  town  with  them,  and 
was  taken  to  the  store  where  the  little 

[56] 


A  Governors  Gift 


hoe  was  duly  bought  and  placed  in  his 
possession.  And  it  was  not  many 
years  before  a  real  sure-enough  imple- 
ment of  the  same  type  displaced  the 
toy  the  Governor  had  given,  and  a  work 
and  an  education  as  yet  unfinished 
was  begun. 

The  boy  does  not  now  remember  just 
what  he  did  with  that  first  hoe.  He 
does  recollect,  however,  that  after  the 
great  occasion  of  its  formal  presenta- 
tion his  father  had  tried  to  explain  its 
real  significance. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "you-  must 
understand  that  the  Governor  did  not 
expect  that  you  were  always  to  keep 
this  particular  hoe  and  try  all  your 
life  to  earn  enough  with  it,  in  working 
for  someone  whose  garden  needed  hoe- 
ing, to  make  a  living  for  yourself." 

That  was  a  little  beyond  the  boy's 
depth,  somewhat  over  his  childish 
head;  but  the  father  elaborated  the 
proposition  in  such  manner  that  the 
underlying  idea  was  vaguely  caught. 

[57] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


"It  means,"  he  added,  "that  you 
are  always  to  try  to  help  yourself  along. 
Do  something  with  your  own  hands, 
and  not  wait  for  someone  else  to  come 
along  and  do  the  work  that  is  before 
you  waiting  to  be  done." 

That  was  plain  enough  truly,  and 
then  followed  something  like  this: 

"It  does  not  mean  that  you  are 
actually  to  hoe  with  this  little  hoe 
always;  nor  does  it  mean  that  even 
when  you  are  a  big  boy,  and  after- 
ward a  man,  you  are  never  to  use  any- 
thing but  just  a  common  hoe.  It 
means  that  you  must  work  hard  and 
faithfully  at  some  kind  of  honest  labor, 
and  so  become  able  to  take  care  of 
yourself,  and  not  be  dependent  on  any- 
one else." 

That  was  more  or  less  illuminating 
and  of  course  gratifying,  for  the  boy 
was  not  sure,  fond  as  he  was  even  then 
of  all  garden  life,  that  he  really  wanted 
to  hoe  weeds  all  his  days  just  because 
a  Governor  had  placed  the  necessary 
[58] 


A  Governor's  Gift 


implement  in  his  hands  with  an  im- 
pressive adjuration  as  to  its  indefinite, 
indeterminate  use. 

Thus  opened  one  of  the  first  im- 
portant epochs  in  a  child's  early  years ; 
thus  did  the  gospel  of  work  and  self- 
dependence  receive  its  first  parental 
preachment;  thus  was  one  boy's  hand 
placed  upon  the  ladder  of  labor,  up 
which  all,  save  those  who  are  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  be  born  with  a  gold 
spoon  in  their  hands,  have  to  climb 
by  their  own  efforts,  or  ultimately  fall. 
And  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  to 
hoe  for  the  wherewithal  to  maintain 
himself  properly  on  certain  occasions 
in  this  little  town  of  Boyville;  and  he 
has  not  yet  seen  the  time  when  the 
hoeing  could  be  altogether  stopped,  if 
pace  with  modern  civilization,  and 
present-day  standards  of  living,  is  to 
be  maintained;  and  he  is  beginning  in 
his  later  years  to  question  somewhat 
the  soundness  of  a  social  state  that 
compels  this  endless  grubbing,  when 

[59] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


under  simpler  standards,  under  less 
constant  pressure,  time  might  be  left 
for  something  better  than  trying  to 
establish  incomes — the  major  part  of 
which  is  claimed  by  butchers  and 
bakers  and  limousine-makers,  and  the 
residue  requisitioned  by  the  Federal 
Treasury. 


[6oJ 


VI 

Going  Back 

SOMEHOW  I  have  felt  a  peculiar 
exaltation  of  spirit  this  afternoon 
as  I  sit  here  in  the  window  watching 
the  crowds  of  youngsters  skating  yon- 
der in  the  park.  Fond  as  we  are  now 
of  a  few  weeks  each  winter  at  Palm 
Beach,  or  maybe  Coronado,  I  know 
perfectly  well  that  if  I  were  compelled 
to  select  anew  a  permanent  abode,  and 
had  to  choose  between  the  Yukon 
and  the  Amazon,  and  you  cared  to 
know  which  way  I  had  passed,  you 
could  send  your  searching  party  some- 
where into  the  North;  not  perhaps  to 
the  great  white  Arctic  wilderness,  but 
at  least  within  hailing  distance  of 
"the  roaring  forties,"  where  the  rocks 
[61] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


and  the  waves,  the  hemlocks  and  the 
pines,  voice  the  never-ending  struggle 
that  is  life,  demanding  always  the  best 
one  has  to  give. 

It  may  be  that  there  is  more  real 
happiness  along  the  Congo  or  the 
Niger  than  can  be  found  on  Riverside 
Drive,  but  one  thing  is  certain — red 
beef,  white  bread  and  blizzards  breed 
sterner-fibred  brains  than  are  common- 
ly possessed  by  those  who  grow  bana- 
nas instead  of  bullocks,  who  prefer  the 
milk  of  a  cocoanut  to  good  certified 
Guernsey,  and  who  wear  palm  leaves 
instead  of  sealskin. 

There  is  everything,  however,  in  the 
permanent  gripping  power  of  early 
associations.  Winter  really  ushered  in 
most  of  the  good  times  enjoyed  in  the 
community  where  these  early  experi- 
ences in  life  began.  True,  there  was 
live  stock  still  to  be  tended  just  as  in 
the  summer  dawn  and  dusk;  and  wood 
had  to  be  chopped.  These  "chores," 
however,  in  willing  hands  were  quickly 
[62] 


Going  Back 


managed;  and  looking  back  to  these 
beginnings  I  can  easily  see  that  what 
appealed  more  than  anything  else  in 
life  in  the  days  of  which  I  write  was 
that  which  came  with  the  iron  clamor 
of  the  big  school  bell's  tongue  sound- 
ing across  the  village  roofs  and  open 
fields ;  a  call  that  will  ever  be  associated 
in  one  boy's  mind  with  the  coming  of 
the  frost.  He  confesses  to  a  fondness 
still  for  drifting  snows.  A  withering 
August  sun  recalls  too  many  old-time 
dog-day  drudgeries.  Did  you  ever 
hoe  corn  or  potatoes  all  day  in  July? 
Did  you  ever  milk  cows  and  carry 
"swill"  to  a  hundred  hungry,  squeal- 
ing pigs  after  a  hot  day's  work  was 
supposed  to  be  done?  And  no  swim- 
ming hole  within  a  mile,  and  no  bath 
tubs  in  the  house?  Ever  stow  hay 
away  with  a  pitchfork  in  a  mow  under 
a  blazing  roof?  No?  Well,  some  of  us 
have,  and  the  pleasantest  memories  of 
our  youth  do  not  all  date  from  those 
inevitable  mid-summer  tasks.  How- 


In  Winter  Quarters 


ever,  the  picture  had  another  side. 
And,  more  than  that,  they  manage 
these  things  much  better  for  the  boys 
throughout  the  growing  season  on  most 
farms  nowadays. 

I  am  sure  that  this  boy  loved  his 
parents  at  least  as  much  as  the  average 
active,  normal,  ragged,  barefooted 
specimen  can.  Nevertheless  he  had  a 
standing  quarrel  with  his  father  as  to 
the  funds  to  be  burned  on  "the  Glori- 
ous Fourth" — that  being  one  of  the 
few  red  letter  days  that  relieved  the 
long  and  strenuous  weeks  that  began 
with  the  heated  term.  This  was  due 
to  the  fact  that,  as  yet,  he  did  not 
altogether  comprehend  the  full  signifi- 
cance attaching  to  the  giving  and  re- 
ceiving of  that  hoe.  Usually  he  was 
compelled  to  earn  his  own  meagre 
accumulation  for  that  great  occasion, 
and  opportunities  for  small  boys  to  get 
actual  cash  for  any  service  they  could 
render  were  in  that  particular  locality 
not  at  all  numerous.  The  one  certain 
[64] 


Going  Back 


annual  source  of  revenue  in  the  neigh- 
borhood was  an  adjacent  farm  devoted 
to  small  fruit  and  berry  culture.  When 
the  strawberry  beds  had  blossomed, 
and  at  last  the  sweet  red  product  had 
ripened  on  the  vines,  old  "Uncle 
Billy"  Waite,  the  owner  of  all  that 
lusciousness,  would  send  for  the  chil- 
dren to  help  harvest  the  crop. 

It  would  be  back-breaking  work  for 
that  boy  now  in  these  same  sunny 
fields,  but  it  was  not  altogether  a  hard- 
ship in  that  blessed  land  of  yesterday. 
First  of  all  the  outfit  ate  about  as 
many  berries  as  they  picked,  but  in 
addition  to  that  the  generous-hearted 
employer  paid  15  cents  an  hour  for  the 
work  in  real  money!  I  think  the  boy 
earned  as  high  as  $3.75  one  big  year. 
True,  he  could  have  burned  up  in  five 
minutes  Fourth  of  July  morning  what 
it  had  taken  him  more  than  ten  hours 
to  earn,  but  he  didn't.  Not  much! 
Those  little  red  Chinese  "crackers" 
were  altogether  too  precious  for  the 
[65] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


indulgence  of  any  such  foolishness  as 
that!  He  fairly  worshipped  each  and 
every  individual  member  of  each  pack, 
and  attached  to  the  lighting  of  each  one 
all  the  importance  and  seriousness  of  a 
really  important  ceremony.  And  how 
disappointed  when  one  of  these  would 
only  "fizz,"  not  crack!  Anyhow,  by 
hook  or  by  crook  he  managed  to  do 
practically  without  his  father's  lack  of 
financial  support  in  this  fire-cracker 
and  torpedo  business,  thereby  writing 
for  the  first  time  his  own  Declaration 
of  Independence.  Probably  the  father 
understood  well  at  the  time  the  lesson 
being  inculcated,  even  if  the  boy  did 
not.  And  his  mother  likewise  took  a 
hand  in  seeing  that  the  hoe  did  not 
rust  for  lack  of  use.  The  lesson  as  to 
the  necessity  for  labor  as  an  essential 
factor  in  one's  daily  life  was  not,  by 
this  boy  at  least,  to  be  forgotten. 

All     children     who     are     properly 
brought   up   have   occasion   now    and 
then    to    resent    maternal    control.     I 
[661 


Going  Back 


know  this  boy  was  often  compelled  to 
do  things  around  the  house  that  he 
regarded  at  the  time  as  altogether  un- 
reasonable; the  most  memorable  of 
all  these  arbitrary  exercises  of  au- 
thority of  which  he  still  has  a  distinct 
recollection  being  notice  given  one 
Circus-day  morning  that  he  would 
have  to  "churn"!  Now  everybody 
knows  that  in  the  small  interior  towns 
of  the  days  of  which  I  write,  far  re- 
moved as  they  were  from  railways,  the 
coming  of  a  one-horse  show  was  looked 
forward  to  for  weeks  by  every  "kid" 
in  the  community.  We  had  agreed  to 
meet  early  at  Charley  Silverwood's. 
The  name  is  remembered  because  never 
heard  of  anywhere  else  before  or  since. 
If  any  of  you  ever  saw  a  boy  working 
off  energy  on  a  dash  churn  that  might 
have  been  expended  carrying  water 
to  the  elephant  or  something,  you  will 
know  that  it  was  a  long  and  tedious 
operation  to  reduce  good  cream  to  but- 
ter and  buttermilk  with  that  anti- 
[67] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


quated  dairy  utensil.  Science  had  not 
yet  given  the  separator  to  a  weary, 
waiting  dairy  world.  Churning  was 
woman's  work  anyhow.  Just  the  same 
it  had  to  be  done;  but  no  house  service 
he  ever  rendered  was  gone  about  with 
fiercer  rebellion  in  his  heart.  Of  course 
he  did  not  tell  "the  gang"  what  it 
was  that  kept  him  away  entirely  from 
that  fondly-anticipated  rendezvous,  for 
that  would  have  been  the  signal  for  too 
many  humiliating  jeers  from  "Skin- 
nay"  and  the  rest,  and  so  one  of  mid- 
summer's few  great  days  of  the  long 
ago  for  him  was  all  but  ruined. 

All  in  all  therefore  the  end  of  sum- 
mer brought  few  regrets,  and  it  was  a 
happy  bunch  that  responded  to  the 
school  bell's  clang  in  late  September. 
It  was  hard  sometimes  at  first,  espe- 
cially when  dreamy  Indian  Summer 
days  had  come,  to  be  penned  up  inside 
when  mysterious  woods  in  scarlet,  gold 
and  brown  bedecked  were  calling  cease- 
lessly, for  all  boys  knew  that  after 
F681 


Going  Back 


every  frost  the  nuts  were  falling  fast; 
that  hickories,  walnuts  and  butternuts 
were  waiting  to  be  sacked  for  wondrous 
winter  nights  to  come.  The  grapes 
hung  purple  on  the  vines,  and  orchards 
richly-laden  spoke  in  accents  plain  of 
big  red  apples,  cider,  popcorn  balls  and 
fun  galore  around  the  roaring  fire  when 
work  was  done. 

Strange,  isn't  it,  how  the  conscious- 
ness of  something  vastly  important  but 
previously  unknown  can  be  suddenly 
and  indelibly  impressed  ?  Certain  boy- 
ish sports  are  ever  to  be  associated  in 
memory  with  unnumbered  happy 
hours,  but  it  was  on  the  wings  of  a. 
typical  western  blizzard  that  there  was 
brought  to  this  boy  the  decidedly  dis- 
turbing fact  that  girls  also  had  a  place 
in  the  general  scheme;  and  that  great 
discovery,  with  all  its  potential  joys 
and  sorrows,  made  one  stormy  winter 
day,  clears  up  any  remaining  doubt  as 
to  why  cold  weather  at  one  time  had 
such  strong  appeal. 
[69] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


There  are  no  thrills  whatever  in  the 
little  tale  I  am  about  to  tell.  It  is  just 
a  plain  narration  of  an  experience 
essentially  human,  and  therefore  neces- 
sarily common.  And  yet  any  incident 
that  marks  the  first  faint  rustling  of  an 
angel's  wing,  old  as  the  story  is,  must 
yet  be  ever  new  and  sometimes  worth 
the  telling,  even  though  it  relates,  as 
in  this  case,  only  to  a  twelve-year-old 
boy  whose  central  idea  of  happiness 
up  to  that  date  had  been,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  based  mainly  upon  considera- 
tions affecting  his  own  comfort  and 
convenience.  So  this  is  how  he  took 
another  step. 

In  the  midst  of  a  good  old-fashioned 
snowy  winter,  one  of  those  blizzards 
that  were  in  the  early  days  a  real 
terror  to  travelers  on  the  western 
prairies  burst  in  all  its  fury  while 
school  was  still  in  session  in  a  little 
country  town.  Word  was  sent  out  to 
fathers  and  mothers  to  send  for  their 
little  ones,  and  see  that  they  got  safely 


Going  Back 


home  through  the  blinding  storm.  The 
older  ones  braved  its  biting  blasts,  and 
as  they  always  had  books  and  slates, 
as  well  as  empty  lunch  boxes  or  pails, 
to  carry  home  the  trip  upon  this  par- 
ticular occasion  was  sure  to  be  a  strenu- 
ous one,  for  it  had  turned  intensely 
cold  by  the  time  the  classes  were  dis- 
missed. The  principal  and  teachers  in 
the  various  rooms  were  much  con- 
cerned, for  the  days  were  short,  and 
after  all  had  waited  long  and  vainly 
for  the  fierce,  keen-cutting  storm  to 
moderate  its  fury,  the  evening  shadows 
threatened,  and  the  order  came  to  don 
wraps,  scarfs,  overshoes  and  mittens, 
and  start  for  their  respective  goals. 

There  were  two  homes  in  the  farther 
edge  of  town,  distant  more  than  a 
mile  from  school,  towards  which  the 
steps  of  one  boy  and  a  neighbor's 
daughter  had  to  be  directed.  They 
had  never  been  known  to  make  the 
trip  together.  From  the  boy's  point 
of  view  that  would  have  subjected 


In  Winter  Quarters 


himself  to  the  deserved  ridicule  of 
every  one  of  his  boon  companions. 
More  than  that,  he  was  not  conscious 
as  yet  of  any  particular  desire  to  walk 
by  this  girl's  side.  She  was  a  year  or 
two  his  senior,  red-cheeked,  vivacious, 
popular.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances he  would  have  raced  straight- 
away of  course,  with  his  accustomed 
playmates,  but  such  was  the  sobering 
influence  of  the  storm — which  for  some 
years  afterwards  was  referred  to  as  the 
worst  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest 
inhabitant — that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  felt  a  strange  new  fear  that 
danger  lurked  in  that  blinding  frigid 
gale  and  the  pathless  ways  for  this  one 
girl.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  any 
other  girl  in  the  whole  school  stood  in 
need  of  such  little  aid  as  he  might 
render,  and,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  he  had  an  armful  of  his  own  im- 
pedimenta to  manage,  with  an  assur- 
ance hitherto  entirely  foreign  to  his 
nature,  he  insisted  upon  adding  to 
[72] 


Going  Back 


his  own  burdens  her  geography,  arith- 
metic and  composition  book,  and  I 
know  not  now  what  other  schoolroom 
accessories  which  she  thought  from 
force  of  habit  she  had  to  have  at  home 
that  night  around  the  evening  lamp. 
But  they  had  not  gone  far  before  the 
real  size  of  the  boy's  contract  became 
apparent. 

Side  by  side  they  fought  their  way 
tediously  along,  the  girl  at  length  con- 
siderately asking  that  her  own  books 
be  given  back;  but  the  boy  was  game 
enough,  I  am  glad  here  to  record,  under 
the  spur  of  some  new  strength  to  turn 
deaf  ears  to  that  appeal.  True,  his 
fingers  and  his  ears  were  aching,  sting- 
ing terribly  in  the  icy  blasts,  and  he 
was  so  laden  that  he  could  neither  bat 
his  hands  to  keep  them  warm  nor 
press  a  mitten  tightly  to  the  side  of  his 
freezing  face,  although  he  dearly  want- 
ed to  do  both.  He  had  undertaken  to 
carry  those  things  home  for  her,  and 
carry  them  to  her  home  he  would, 
[73] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


unless  insurmountable  snow-drifts 
stopped  him  before  her  parental  thresh- 
old could  be  reached.  To  dwell  upon 
that  wintry  journey,  not  of  "two  babes 
in  the  woods,"  but  of  two  children 
through  a  record  storm,  is  scarcely 
necessary.  The  main  thing  is  that 
they  at  length  arrived.  The  girl  in 
her  furs  was  all  right,  but  that  boy's 
mother,  believe  me,  all  who  have  fol- 
lowed this  prosaic  yarn  thus  far,  had 
one  busy  hour  trying  to  extract  the 
frost  from  his  various  extremities. 
Toes  and  fingers  came  through  the 
ordeal  without  serious  injury,  but  to 
this  day  his  ears  feel  instantly  and 
acutely  the  teeth  of  low  temperature. 
It  is  not  of  any  physical  discom- 
forts, temporary  or  permanent,  result- 
ing from  this  youthful  experience,  that 
the  boy  would  here  have  me  speak,  but 
rather  he  would  have  recorded  the 
simple  fact  that  such  pain  as  he  en- 
dured that  day  and  night  and  for  suc- 
ceeding days  and  nights  was  swallowed 
[74] 


Going  Back 


up  completely  in  the  belief  that  he  had 
rendered  an  actual  service  to  one  who 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  thus 
strangely  become  invested  in  his  sight 
with  attributes  not  possessed  by  any- 
one else.  And  for  a  long  time  after  that 
not  even  his  pet  dog  nor  pony  meant 
as  much  as  she!  He  was  glad  that  he 
had  frozen  his  ears  in  such  a  worthy 
cause,  and  would  have  done  the  same 
thing  again,  maybe  even  more,  if 
occasion  had  offered  in  an  environment 
so  nearly  barren  of  dramatic  pos- 
sibilities. 

Thus  was  another  little  step  in  a 
boy's  education  taken,  and  the  sound 
of  that  last  angry  howl  of  the  Lake 
Michigan  gale  tearing  by  my  book- 
room  window  tonight  recalls  the  picture 
of  two  children  fighting  their  way  one 
winter  afternoon  from  an  old  brick 
school-house,  that  may  be  standing 
yet,  to  their  neighboring  homes  out- 
side a  town  that  was  once  the  world 
and  all  to  both  of  them. 

[75] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Did  you  ever  read  Will  Allen  White's 
clever  sketch  entitled  "The  Home- 
coming of  Col.  Hucks"?  I  think  more 
of  it  than  of  a  lot  of  other  stuff  the 
versatile  and  talented  Emporia  editor 
has  since  erupted.  Well,  the  colonel 
was  a  Kansas  worthy,  a  leading  citizen 
who  had  made  good  in  the  west,  in 
worldly  ways  at  least,  and  finally  went 
back  with  his  wife,  as  I  remember  it, 
to  revisit  his  early  Ohio  boyhood 
haunts,  only  to  meet  with  one  blamed 
disappointment  after  another  in  seek- 
ing out  various  once  familiar  scenes. 
Nothing  was  half  as  big  as  it  used  to- 
be!  Distances  were  infinitely  less! 
The  whole  business  had  somehow 
shrunk  and  shriveled  up  until  what 
childhood's  fancy  had  painted  into 
something  almost  sublime  had  sud- 
denly become  fairly  ridiculous;  so  that 
the  Huckses  went  back  to  Kansas 
more  or  less  disgusted,  and  of  course 
better  satisfied  then  ever  with  their 
western  environment. 
[76] 


Going  Back 


I  know  just  how  Hucks  must  have 
felt,  for  not  so  many  years  ago  a  boy 
revisited  the  old  home  in  Iowa,  and 
vouches  for  the  strange  and  absolutely 
unaccountable,  in  fact  impossible, 
changes  that  have  come  over  certain 
well-known  areas  and  dimensions.  For 
many  years,  when  he  was  a  very  small 
specimen,  there  was  no  railway  line 
through  the  county  in  which  he  had 
been  born.  His  father  was  the  owner 
of  a  small  private  bank  that  faced  the 
great  brick  Court  House  in  the  public 
square,  and  one  of  the  boy's  earliest 
recollections  had  to  do  with  a  string  of 
oxen,  probably  six  or  eight  pair,  strain- 
ing and  leaning  heavily  in  their  yokes 
hauling  a  great  steel  safe  being  trans- 
ported over  land  from  a  shipping 
point  some  30  miles  distant.  He  will 
swear  that  this  safe  stood  at  least  15 
feet  high,  and  it  was  painted  green 
and  letters  on  it  spelled  "Herring," 
and  it  came  from  Cincinnati.  Maybe 
that  may  mean  something  to  some  of 
[77] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


you  old  bankers  or  modern  steel- 
makers, and  maybe  it  will  not.  Any- 
how, the  boy  knows  now  that  this 
great  pioneer  safe-deposit  thing  was 
possibly  six  feet  high,  not  more. 

I  could  tell  you  also  of  a  little  inci- 
dent connected  with  the  construction 
of  a  railway  through  the  sleepy  old 
village  of  this  same  boy's  youth.  At 
one  point  the  locating  engineers  were 
forced  to  run  the  line  through  a  hill, 
and  across  a  ravine.  I  use  these  words 
advisedly,  because  when  the  construc- 
tion gangs  did  the  work  a  small  boy 
stood  for  hours  watching  the  great 
"cut"  and  "fill"  gradually  being 
brought  together  at  the  requisite 
grade,  and  knew  therefore  from  first- 
hand source  what  a  stupendous  under- 
taking it  really  was!  Do  you  care  to 
know  how  deep  that  cutting  is  now, 
and  that  self-same  "fill"?  I  will  be 
liberal  and  record  the  fact  that  they 
must  be  somewhere  between  15  and 
20  feet!  That  boy  will  never  forget 
[78] 


Going  Back 


the  shock  of  making  this  wretched 
discovery.  In  fact,  this  enforced  recti- 
fication of  supposedly  well-established 
physical  lines  so  jarred  his  imagination 
that  he  knew  at  once  that  his  child's 
house  of  cards  was  to  be  immediately 
and  everlastingly  demolished,  and  it 
was. 

Do  you  know  that  the  old  marsh 
where  the  mallards  and  the  muskrats 
used  to  feed  had  disappeared  entirely? 
That  corn  and  alfalfa  are  now  growing 
where  once  he  used  to  skate?  And 
must  he  tell  you  that  the  river  where 
the  "shinny"  was  played  and  the 
great  bon-fires  built  is  now  just  a 
plain,  every-day  shallow  creek?  In  the 
interest  of  the  truth  must  he  also  con- 
fess that  what  the  boys  called  the 
creek  is  little  more  than  a  dried-up 
open  ditch,  the  timber  all  cut  away 
from  its  once  thickly-wooded  banks! 
And  in  "the  old  swimmin'  hole"  i'n 
one  of  the  bends  where  he  knew  he 
had  caught  hundreds  of  bull  heads 
[79] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


and  tiny  sun  fish  there  is  not  now 
water  enough  to  float  a  good-sized  chip ! 
Thus  perish  cherished  illusions  one 
by  one,  as  our  education  progresses. 
I  bury  a  new  one  every  few  years.  I 
can  name  one  thing,  however,  that  is 
constant  and  changeth  never.  The 
note  that  dominates  tonight  the  wild 
music  of  the  wintry  wind  lashing  the 
ice-bound  branches  of  the  trees  is  the 
same  as  when  the  world  was  born.  It 
mourns  for  the  beauty  that  fled  with 
the  early  frosts,  but  the  snowflakes 
that  follow  in  its  wake  bring  the  never- 
failing  promise  that  all  shall  come 
again. 


[80 


VII 

When  Snows  Are  Deep 

MID-WINTER  has  its  high 
Olympian  hours  no  less  re- 
nowned than  summer's  halcyon  days 
— if  you  only  think  so.  Content  or 
discontent,  happiness  or  unhappiness, 
joy  or  sorrow,  at  all  seasons,  are  at 
bottom  merely  a  state  of  mind  super- 
induced largely  by  a  state  of  the  body. 
A  jolly  snowstorm  that  sets  red- 
cheeked  school  children  wild  with 
joy,  excites  little  enthusiasm  in  an 
asylum  for  the  blind.  The  world  is  a 
delirious  dream  of  pure  delight  to 
those  in  health  and  who,  at  the  mo- 
ment, are  having  all  their  fondest 
wishes  gratified.  How  can  anyone 
ever  be  weary  of  it? 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Some  day  when  a  heavy  snow  is 
falling,  put  on  your  cap  and  coat  and 
boots  and  mittens,  cut  all  your  wires 
behind  you  and  head  deep  into  the 
woods.  Not  those  man-planted  ones 
in  Lincoln,  or  any  other,  park  or  in 
ornamented  private  grounds,  but  God's 
own  woods,  where  the  briars  and  brush 
and  undergrowth  still  form  the  sur- 
face-mulch for  big  old  oaks  or  pines 
or  sycamores.  You  will  gain  more  there 
in  an  hour  than  you  can  make  any- 
where else  in  a  month.  That  is,  unless 
all  those  attributes  that  belong  to  man 
as  the  Lord  intended  him  to  be,  have 
been  bred  out  of  you,  as  the  horns 
have  been  bred  off  certain  types  of 
animals.  Unfortunately  twentieth  cen- 
tury standards  are  steadily  transform- 
ing us  from  wholesome  natural  rational 
beings  into  something  not  found  on 
Creation's  list  of  original  specifications. 

Go  out  into  the  forest  when  the 
great,  lazy,  six-pointed  crystals  are 
softly  sifting  downward  through  the 
[82] 


When  Snows  Are  Deep 


trees,  when  all  paths  and  trails  and 
roadways  have  been  freshly  buried, 
when  Aeolian  waves  of  harmony  rise 
with  muffled  roar  and  die  away  and 
rise  again  as  the  swaying  wood  re- 
sponds to  the  baton  of  the  master  of 
the  storm.  Do  not  hurry.  And  now 
and  then  "stop,  look  and  listen." 
Some  train  de  luxe,  with  its  ill-venti- 
lated steam-heated  compartments  and 
deluded  passengers  on  their  way  to 
scenes  supposed  to  surpass  those  in 
the  midst  of  which  you  are  standing, 
may  be  flying  somewhere  in  the  far 
distance,  but  you  are  safe.  You  are 
not  only  in  no  danger  so  far  as  any 
actual  impact  is  concerned,  but  the 
atmosphere  in  which  you  are  enveloped 
would  analyze  quite  free  from  toxins. 
I  know  the  Pullmans  are  thoroughly 
disinfected  at  the  end  of  each  trip. 
But  the  fact  that  this  is  necessary 
supplies  the  proof  that  people  will 
leave  home  to  run  into  that  which  finds 
no  abiding  place  under  this  old  bass- 
[83] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


wood  standing  so  serene  and  steadfast 
in  his  spotless  garb.  Those  drawing- 
rooms  are  all  right  for  those  who  have 
to  go.  So  are  the  theatres  the  Shuberts 
syndicate.  But  I  know  people  who 
would  be  quite  as  well  off  if  they 
patronized  a  snowy  woodlot  more  and 
courted  the  streptococcus  artificialis 
less. 

There  is  a  strange,  mysterious,  sooth- 
ing quality  in  the  woodland  snowstorm 
that  you  do  not  get  in  the  more  savage 
blizzard  that  blows  almost  horizontally 
across  a  wind-swept  prairie.  In  the 
forest  thicket  you  feel  the  presence  of 
all  sorts  of  co-related  life.  All  i?  so 
still,  save  the  tossing  treetops.  All  so 
tranquil.  All  so  intimate.  You  are  so 
near  the  heart  of  so  many  things.  The 
spirit  of  solitude  spreads  like  a  benedic- 
tion throughout  the  world  in  which  you 
stand.  No  dry  leaf,  or  twig,  or  stump, 
or  stone,  or  brush,  or  branch  is  for- 
gotten by  the  flakes.  They  are  so  fair, 
so  frail,  so  pure,  impartial  and  in- 
[84] 


When  Snows  Are  Deep 


sinuating.  A  loving  tenderness  seems 
to  animate  each  cloud-star  as  it  nears 
its  resting  place.  With  what  inex- 
pressible poetry  of  motion  it  wings  its 
way  amongst  the  outstretched  waving 
arms  through  which  it  passes  in  its 
downward  flight.  It  comes  to  shelter, 
save,  insure,  protect.  Some  day  it  will 
hear  a  sun-ray  call,  and  disappear 
beneath  the  sod  to  fulfill  another  pur- 
pose in  the  endless  cycle  of  its  destiny. 
Even  the  birds  and  burrowing  fur- 
bearers  seem  to  sense  in  the  sky-born 
visitation  a  semi-sacred  ceremony 
staged  primarily  for  their  own  ultimate 
benefit  and  comfort.  The  fox  in  his 
lair,  the  mole  in  his  communicating 
trenches,  the  squirrel  in  the  tree  trunk, 
the  mouse  in  his  nest,  all  know  that 
it  is  the  setting  of  a  scene  that  has 
grown  to  be  a  part  of  their  very  lives, 
without  which  they  would  find  winter 
unendurable,  and  they  watch  its  prog- 
ress in  content  from  within  their  snug 
retreats.  When  all  is  over  they  will 
[85] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


sally  forth,  and  the  boy  who  loves 
woodcraft  will  then  find  occupation 
a-plenty  studying  the  dainty  traces 
of  their  wanderings  through  the  freshly 
fallen  snow.  But  the  virgin  snow  is  a 
great  betrayer  of  the  forest  creature's 
secrets.  The  tiniest  bird  or  beast  that 
sets  foot  upon  the  delicate  surface 
advertises  that  which  it  would  fain 
conceal.  The  writings  of  these  folk 
on  the  snow  are  easily  deciphered  by 
their  enemies,  as  well  as  by  their 
friends. 

There  is  nothing  finer  in  the  world 
than  tramping  the  woods  after  a  heavy 
snowfall  has  obliterated  all  the  road- 
ways, paths  and  trails;  provided  you 
only  think  so;  provided  you  have  still 
some  of  the  primal  instincts  left  in 
your  system  after  civilization  has  done 
its  worst  for  you;  provided  always  you 
are  properly  dressed  for  the  adventure. 
Next  to  this  I  used  to  like  a  horseback 
ride  through  a  heavy  rain — if  "slicker" 
and  leggings  were  available.  Rain-in- 
[86] 


When  Snows  Are  Deep 


the-Face  was  a  great  Sioux  warrior. 
I  always  liked  his  name.  We  may  be 
distantly  related  for  all  I  know.  Some- 
where back  in  ante-diluvian  days  we 
may  have  hunted  together  in  the  misty 
hills.  I  rather  think  we  did. 

Longfellow's  despairing  delineation 
of  the  "cold  and  cruel  winter"  in 
"The  Song  of  Hiawatha"  is  one  of  the 
glories  of  our  literature,  but  it  was 
written  to  fit  "the  famine  and  the 
fever";  and  that  is  getting  back  to  our 
original  proposition.  The  season  is 
a  joy  or  a  curse  just  according  as  you 
happen  to  be  physically  and  mentally 
situated.  There  is  little  or  no  real  dis- 
tress in  this  latitude  on  or  about  the 
farmsteads  of  those  who  have  been 
wise  enough  to  resist  the  call  to  city 
flats.  The  average  farmer  not  only 
provides  himself  and  family  with  all 
the  needed  comforts,  but,  more  than 
that,  looks  after  the  well-being  also  of 
the  animals  that  constitute  such  an 
essential  factor  in  the  agricultural 
[87] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


economy  of  the  day.  This  is  not  only 
the  part  of  wisdom  from  the  stand- 
point of  dollars  and  cents,  but  is  a 
fine  confession  of  the  moral  responsi- 
bility actually  assumed  by  those  who 
have  developed  through  clever  manip- 
ulation races  and  types  of  domesticated 
animal  life,  admirably  adapted  to  serve 
a  useful  purpose,  but  demanding  help 
if  they  are  to  survive  rigors  with  which 
they  are  unfitted  to  cope.  Those 
forms  of  animal  life  which  man  has 
not  tried  his  'prentice  hand  upon  need 
no  coddling. 

If  you  are  breeding  buffaloes  or 
beavers  you  need  not  bother  about 
barns  or  good  warm  basements.  You 
can  sit  by  your  own  fireside  and  take 
no  heed  of  whatever  the  thermometer 
is  doing.  But  with  your  Jersey  cow  or 
Southdown  ewe,  the  case  is  different. 
Minnesota  is  not  a  Channel  Island,  and 
the  Laramie  Plains  have  somewhat 
more  exacting  Januarys  than  Kent  or 
Devonshire.  Hence  if  you  will  insist 
[881 


When  Snows  Are  Deep 


upon  transplanting  products  of  Gulf 
Stream  environments  into  the  north- 
ern United  States  or  Canada  you  have 
no  business  to  ask  them  to  hug  the 
leeside  of  a  barbed  wire  fence  on  a 
stormy  winter's  night.  And  so  with 
our  friend  the  harmless  necessary  hen. 
If  you  are  breeding  owls,  then  leave 
them  to  their  own  resources.  Never 
fear.  Nature  will  look  after  her  own 
all  right.  That  proud  rooster  though 
that  strutted  and  flirted  his  way  so 
gaily  through  the  fields  and  gardens 
last  summer  will  be  a  sorry  specimen 
by  February  if  not  given  real  protec- 
tion from  the  frost.  He  doesn't  look 
well  and  loses  all  his  cockiness  if  that 
bright  red  head-piece  of  his  is  blighted 
and  blackened  by  being  frozen.  His 
best  "biddy"  will  scarcely  look  at 
him. 

Fine  poultry,  like  fine  cattle  and  the 

fleecy  flocks,  are  artificial  products  of 

man's    own   ingenuity,    and   he    must 

help  them  when  they  are  helpless,  or 

[89] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Nature  will  either  destroy  or  modify 
them  to  conform  to  her  own  all-wise 
notions  of  what  a  bird  or  beast  should 
be  to  survive  her  not  always  tender 
handling.  Knowing  as  we  do  that  in 
many  cases  these  creatures  are  owned 
by  men  who  expect  them  to  shift  more 
or  less  for  themselves,  I  never  see  a 
bitter  winter  night  settling  down  over 
our  iron-bound  territory  that  I  am  not 
oppressed  by  the  certainty  that  some- 
where not  only  poorly-protected  hu- 
mans, but  thousands  of  other  living 
things,  are  facing  sufferings  intense; 
and  this  feeling  detracts  always  from 
the  satisfactions  waiting  round  the 
glow  of  the  evening  lamp,  as  the  ice- 
pond  in  the  park  begins  to  crack  with 
cold  and  darkness  overtakes  alike  both 
sheltered  and  unsheltered  flesh  and 
blood. 

Being    snow-bound    has    no    terrors 

for  those  who  love  good  books  or  those 

who  find  something  more  than   heat 

in  the  open  fire-place.    Strange,  isn't 

[90] 


When  Snows  are  Deep 


it,  how  universally  we  are  led  back  to 
the  trees?  Even  the  steam  that  we 
are  just  now  relying  on  for  our  own 
winter's  comfort  speaks  of  the  coal 
measures  where  the  buried  forests  of 
forgotten  ages  wait  the  summons  to 
give  back  the  fires  of  Nature's  yester- 
day. And  you  who  have  the  big  fat 
back-log  of  more  recent  growth  and  the 
drift-wood,  birch,  pitch  pine  or  heart 
of  oak  or  hickory  to  feed  it  with  have 
established  actual  touch  with  the  gold- 
en days  of  youth,  the  out-of-doors  and 
all  its  blessings.  The  log  that  beams 
for  you  tonight  once  bore  aloft  the 
swaying  cribs  in  which  wild  birds  were 
cradled,  the  lofty  branches  through 
which  the  breezes  of  the  summer  night 
once  wandered  underneath  the  stars. 


[91] 


VIII 

Parkways  and  Willows 

WINTER  has  apparently  suffered 
a  relapse,  to  be  more  than  made 
good  no  doubt  during  March  and  April. 
Meantime  the  very  breath  of  spring  is 
in  the  atmosphere.  Green  grass  and 
a  sky  of  blue  add  to  the  delusion  of  the 
hour.  Along  the  boulevard  the  motors 
whirl  their  loads  of  human  freight. 
Milady  prefers  an  afternoon  at  bridge, 
the  matinee  or  Field's.  The  downtown 
clubs  will  be  filled  with  men  and 
smoke.  At  the  Athletic  they  will  still 
be  unreconciled  to  the  awful  drouth, 
and  play  their  Kelly  pool.  Down  street 
a  little  farther,  at  the  Chicago  Club, 
a  select  few  are  seated  at  the  front 
windows  viewing  the  passing  show 
l93l 


In  Winter  Quarters 


upon  the  crowded  avenue.  Over  at 
the  Union  League  a  proper  lot  of  highly 
respectable  citizens  will  lounge  about, 
talk  business,  golf  and  gout,  discuss 
civic  health  and  morals,  read  the  early 
afternoon  editions  and  consume  per- 
fectos.  At  the  Blackstone  elaborate 
luncheons  will  kill  the  better  part  of 
what  is  really  a  perfect  day  outdoors. 
The  Board  of  Trade  and  Stock  Ex- 
change will  close  in  time  to  permit  the 
gamblers  to  loiter  around  "the  street" 
an  hour  or  two  discussing  May  corn 
or  U.  S.  Steel.  Toward  night  machines 
and  trolleys,  trains  and  busses,  vehicles 
of  high  and  low  degree  in  one  vast  con- 
course will  essay  the  task  of  trans- 
ferring 300,000  people,  who  think  they 
have  been  doing  something  or  enjoy- 
ing themselves,  from  the  downtown 
inferno  to  their  respective  caves  from 
three  to  thirty  miles  distant,  and  the 
traffic  police  will  have  their  hands  full 
managing  the  riot. 

I  have  been  one  of  this  self-same 
[94] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


crowd,  and  am  familiar  with  its  ways. 
I  have  perhaps  done  my  share  of  work 
along  conventional  lines.  Have  burned 
midnight  oil  at  home  on  copy  which  the 
printers  had  to  have  next  day.  Have 
stood  over  the  stones  and  galleys  with 
an  old  foreman — long  since  gone  to  his 
reward — making-up  forms  for  presses 
that  were  waiting  to  receive  them,  as 
late  as  4:00  A.M.  I  have  thought  it 
incumbent  upon  me  to  hoe  and  hoe 
persistently  through  all  these  years  for 
place  and  means  to  support  a  manner 
of  living  that  differs  decidedly — and  I 
am  not  sure  but  for  the  worse — from 
that  still  happily  adhered  to  in  the 
South  Sea  Isles.  I  have  "conformed" 
in  other  words,  including  lobster  salads ; 
and  as  one  result  any  Cossack  in  a 
wolf-skin  jacket  on  the  Russian  steppes 
has  me  physically  beaten  eighteen  miles. 
One  gets  more  oxygen  working  before 
the  mast  around  the  Horn  or  riding  a 
bronco  on  the  western  range  than  from 
the  bituminous  clouds  that  envelop 
[951 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  corner  of  South  Dearborn  and 
Harrison  streets.  The  city  man  is 
putting  an  ounce  of  carbon  into  his 
system  for  every  extra  dollar  in  cash 
put  into  his  purse.  I  am  like  most  of 
the  rest  of  you.  I  have  put  in  too  much 
time  working  for  landlords,  grocers  and 
department  stores,  and  not  enough  in 
acquiring  knowledge  of  grasshoppers. 
I  have  thought  in  my  folly  I  was  doing 
something  perhaps  worth  while  by 
undertaking  public  service  when  I  had 
better  been  out  upon  the  hills  with  a 
good  Collie  dog.  There  can  be  no  par- 
ticular satisfaction,  I  imagine,  trying 
to  listen  to  the  hum  of  bees  amidst 
the  clover  blossoms  that  grow  above 
one's  head. 

Abandoning  our  friends,  for  a  little 
time  now  to  their  respective  vices  and 
vocations  downtown,  perhaps  my  over- 
coat and  hat  may  lead  me  even  here  in 
Lincoln  Park  to  new  and  real  experi- 
ences. I  never  took  a  walk  or  a  ride 
in  my  life  where  I  could  establish 
[96] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


touch  with  things  worth  looking  at 
that  I  have  not  returned  more  than 
ever  satisfied  that  the  whole  universe 
is  kin,  and  that  we  know  nothing  at 
all  about  it.  This  afternoon,  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  there  will  be  little  of 
bird,  of  flower  or  insect  life  abroad,  but 
can't  you  hear  the  water  lapping  softly 
the  sandy  shores  of  that  lagoon?  Go 
rather  to  the  "movies"  if  you  like! 
And  that  great  bank  of  cloud  drifting 
yonder  down  the  lake!  It  came  from 
I  know  not  where,  and  is  floating 
lazily  towards  the  distant  port  of  "I- 
don't-care."  Follow  the  crowd  down 
State  Street  if  you  prefer.  I  shall  not. 
And  that  word  "crowd"  tells  the 
whole  story.  I  can  enjoy  a  herd  of 
Herefords  or  a  flock  of  Shropshires, 
but  mobs  of  mere  people  I  prefer  to 
avoid!  There  is  no  congestion  of  men 
or  women  therefore  where  I  com- 
monly walk.  That  is,  if  I  have  any 
choice  in  the  matter. 

Speaking  of  statues,  there  are  many 
[97] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


cast  in  bronze  sitting  or  standing  or 
riding  around  here  in  the  park.  I 
don't  think  tourists  travel  overseas 
to  see  any  of  them.  Saint  Gaudens' 
Lincoln  is  a  truly  noble  conception, 
and  lends  dignity  to  this  entire  section 
of  the  city,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  of  the 
equestrian  Grant  and  half-a-dozen 
others.  There  is  one  thing  though  in 
respect  to  these  monuments  for  which 
I  am  duly  grateful.  The  two  that  I 
have  to  live  with  are  Linne  and  Shake- 
speare. I  might  have  landed  in  an 
apartment  facing  the  park  farther  to 
the  north  and  had  to  look  willy-nilly 
at  that  monstrous  Goethe.  So  all  is 
not  hopeless.  I  really  do  not  know 
whether  the  heroic  figure  of  the  great 
Swedish  naturalist  is  art  or  not.  I 
have  my  suspicions.  But  just  the  same 
I  love  to  go  over  there  and  visit  with 
him.  He  stands  in  a  bosky  bend  of  the 
driveway  but  a  few  hundred  yards 
from  our  window,  and  is  to  me  a  con- 
stant reminder  of  woodlands  wild  and 
[98] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


fields,  of  moors  and  mountain  slopes 
where  plant-folk  bide.  How  well  he 
knew  them,  each  great  or  humble 
dweller  in  his  kingdom,  and  how  gladly 
they  yielded  up  to  him  their  inmost 
secrets !  I  never  go  over  there  and  look 
up  into  his  face  without  wishing  that 
I  too  knew  something  of  sepals,  stig- 
mas, bracts  and  fronds  and  pollens. 
And  yet  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  under- 
stand that  one  after  all  does  not  have 
to  be  a  learned  scientist  to  feel  and 
know  the  beauty  of  a  "murmuring 
pine!"  Any  of  us  can  grasp  that  joy 
if  we  have  but  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to 
hear;  if  we  but  look  up  with  Perseus, 
not  down  with  pugilists. 

It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  were  a 
sculptor  and  had  received  a  commis- 
sion to  execute  a  statue  of  a  man  who 
has  a  great  name  and  character  to  sus- 
tain before  the  world,  and  the  man 
according  to  all  traditions  was  bald  as 
a  hornet,  and  the  monument  was  to 
be  set  up  out-of-doors  somewhere  in 
[99] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


this  latitude,  I  would  hesitate  a  long 
time  before  seating  him  bare-headed 
and  all  " dolled  up"  in  full  drawing- 
room  costume.  This  is  what  happened 
to  our  dear  old  bard  of  Avon  in  Lincoln 
Park.  It  is  true  that  few  people  ever 
stop  to  note  his  plight  when  rains  or 
snows  are  beating  on  that  big  Shake- 
spearean dome.  The  statue  is  really 
most  admirable  as  a  fair  weather  prop- 
osition, but  with  one  eye  and  both  ears 
plastered  full  of  wet  snow,  and  an 
inch  or  two  of  "the  beautiful"  resting 
where  hair  or  hat  should  have  been,  I 
can  assure  you  it  is  hard  for  anybody, 
however  great,  to  look  specially  dig- 
nified or  really  serious. 

I  do  not  know  how  much  or  how 
little  the  sense  of  humor  is  developed 
in  my  own  particular  case,  but  I  do 
know  that  "the  myriad-minded"  once 
assumed  such  a  truly  fearful  and  won- 
derful expression  as  a  result  of  the 
storm  king's  pranks  that  I  grinned  in 
spite  of  myself  when  I  saw  the  liberties 
[100] 


Photo  by  R.  F.  Hildebrand 
WHAT  A  PIECE  OF  WORK  is  MAN" — Hamlet 


Parkways  and  Willows 


old  Boreas  had  taken  with  the  creator 
of  Hamlet  and  Macbeth.  And,  again, 
one  other  day  when  weeping  skies  were 
wrapping  all  the  landscape  round  about 
in  mist  and  rain  poor  William  was 
again  put  to  it  hard  to  retain  his  grip 
upon  our  self-restraint  in  his  awesome 
presence.  He  sits  there  in  knee  breech- 
es in  a  "comfy"  chair;  his  bronze  silk 
hose  tied  up  with  big  bow-knots.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  too  much  respect 
for  him  who  gave  the  world  Othello 
and  King  Lear  to  tell  you  that  great 
drops  were  falling  from  the  Jovian 
beak  down  his  ruffled  shirt-front  into 
the  divine  lap,  attaining  the  dignity 
of  real  rivulets  by  the  time  the  toe  of 
the  extended  sacred  foot  was  reached. 
Even  so,  thought  I,  once  flowed  the 
fountains  of  his  genius,  and  then  I 
smiled  again  at  the  amusing  picture  of 
a  shower  bath  in  dress  clothes  in  a 
public  place.  But  come  to  think  of  it 
why  indeed  should  not  the  statue  now 
and  then  bring  the  laughter  that 
[101] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


always  lies  so  near  the  tears?  Have 
we  so  soon  forgotten  Sir  Tobey  and  the 
Dromios?  Why  not  therefore  high 
comedy  as  well  as  great  romance  and 
tragedy  effectively  dispensed  at  differ- 
ent hours  and  seasons  from  the  self- 
same monument? 

And  while  on  this  subject,  many  of 
you  have  seen  of  course  the  famous 
Lafayette  group  of  statuary  opposite 
the  White  House  grounds  in  Washing- 
ton. The  marquis  high  upon  his 
pedestal  with  a  flowing  drapery  de- 
pending from  an  extended  arm  looks 
down  upon  a  female  figure  placed  in 
supplicating  posture  at  his  feet.  The 
lady  looks  up  appealingly  into  the 
hero's  face  and  holds  aloft  for  him  to 
grasp  a  sword.  America  pleading  for 
his  help  perhaps;  but  once  upon  a 
time  a  sacrilegious  wag  remarked,  after 
studying  the  situation,  that  the  woman 
is  really  giving  expression  to  a  very 
elemental  human  thought:  "I  say, 
old  Top,  please  hand  me  down  my 
[102] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


clothes  and  you  shall  have  your  blade!' ' 
How  short  indeed  the  step  at  times 
from  sky  to  earth !  History,  however, 
records  the  fact  that  the  marquis 
actually  took  the  sword  and  wielded  it 
with  true  Gallic  brilliancy  in  our  be- 
half, and  not  many  months  ago  Persh- 
ing  stood  at  a  grave  in  the  little  Picpus 
cemetery  in  the  eastern  environs  of 
Paris,  and  made  the  most  eloquent 
speech  as  yet  evoked  by  the  great 
world  war.  With  uncovered  head  the 
American  commander  simply  said: 
"Lafayette!  We  are  here!"  I  know 
the  spot;  and  if  I  remember  right,  just 
outside  the  cemetery  gate  is  a  little 
church,  or  convent,  with  a  chapel, 
where  the  tapers  ever  burn,  presided 
over  by  the  sisters  of  the  Order  of  the 
Perpetual  Adoration.  And  even  as 
that  altar  is  never  deserted  for  a  mo- 
ment night  or  day,  so  must  we  guard 
with  like  devotion  the  sacred  fires  of 
liberties  now  menaced — not  from  with- 
out, but  from  within. 
[103] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


There  goes  a  nursemaid  with  a  little 
girl  by  her  side  and  a  toy  dog  trying  to 
act  like  a  real  one.  Of  course  he  can't. 
But  that  is  not  his  fault.  He  was  bred 
that  shape  and  can't  help  himself  any 
more  than  I  can  change  the  convolu- 
tions of  the  cerebrum  and  cerebellum 
which  several  million  different  individ- 
uals conspired  to  hand  to  me.  You  see 
we  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  There  is 
no  escaping  some  things.  Each  man, 
each  Dachshund,  "cootie"  or  canary 
is  but  an  unwilling  composite  of  a 
couple  of  billion  other  creatures  gone 
before,  having  had  no  more  to  do  with 
the  mixing  of  his  own  ingredients  than 
Beethoven  had  to  do  with  the  model- 
ling of  that  bust  on  the  pedestal 
yonder  that  bears  his  name.  The  bust 
has  certain  great  advantages,  however, 
over  the  rest  of  us.  For  one  thing  it 
doesn't  have  to  sit  through  the  grue- 
some glories  of  the  "Goetterdam- 
merung,"  but  gets  real  thunder  and 
the  lightning's  brilliant  play  from 
[  104] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


clouds  first-hand.  Perched  there  in 
sunshine  and  in  storm,  in  fixed  com- 
placency complete,  it  mocks  the  petty 
pageant  of  the  passing  world,  agree- 
ing perfectly  no  doubt  with  Puck — 
"What  fools  these  mortals  be!" 

A  seedy-looking  individual  who  looks 
as  if  life  had  not  been  altogether  kind 
is  wandering  down  the  gravel  walk 
ahead.  His  clothes  may  have  appeared 
very  "smart"  once  upon  a  time  draped 
on  a  form  in  a  store  priding  itself  upon 
handling  the  goods  of  say  the  house 
of  Hochenheimer,  but  they  are  not 
nearly  as  good-looking  now  as  the  suit 
that  pup  is  wearing.  Moreover,  I 
don't  believe  our  friend  is  specially 
interested  either  in  the  lapping  water 
to  which  I  have  recently  referred  as 
being  worth  studying.  I  spot  him  as 
just  a  human  derelict,  and  seeing  that 
I  myself  am  practically  alone  here 
amidst  these  same  grateful  surround- 
ings, far  off  the  beaten  track  being 
pursued  by  nearly  all  my  friends  and 
[105] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


acquaintances  this  same  afternoon,  I 
am  not  sure  but  the  term  is  more  or  less 
applicable  to  others  than  the  hobo  who 
makes  no  secret  of  his  status  in  the 
social  scale.  Still  I  am  not  yet  quite 
an  abandoned  craft,  for  sometimes  I 
fetch  myself  sharply  about  and  find 
real  satisfaction  in  a  course  squared 
with  the  regularly  charted  lanes  of 
human  travel. 

I  note  one  other  point  of  divergence 
between  poor  "weary  William"  and 
myself.  He  has  gone  straight  by  the 
finest  tree  I  know  in  this  whole  forest, 
and  never  even  so  much  as  gave  it  a 
casual  glance.  That  is  to  me  little  less 
than  criminal.  Let  us  make  up  for 
his  boorishness  therefore  in  that  par- 
ticular by  paying  our  respects  before 
we  pass.  It  is  a  member  of  the  willow 
tribe,  and  on  its  hoary  trunk  there  is  a 
rusted  label,  evidently  tacked  there 
years  ago  by  order  of  some  park  super- 
intendent who  had  some  adequate 
appreciation  of  the  duties  of  his  posi- 
[106! 


Parkways  and  Willows 


tion.  The  inscription  is  almost  obliter- 
ated now,  but  a  glass  enables  me  to 
read  "Salix  Alba!"  So  let  the  shifting 
currents  bear  our  world-worn  brother 
where  they  will.  May  angels  some- 
where take  his  case  in  gentle  hands! 
I  can't.  I  want  to  know  more  about 
this  Salix  business. 

If  by  chance  you  are  interested  in 
trees  possessing  character,  pronounced 
individuality,  picturesque  personality, 
just  run  up  some  day  to  the  point 
where  the  great  Chicago  fire  of  1871 
finally  burned  itself  out  at  Fullerton 
Parkway.  Here  in  the  most  beautiful 
residence  section  of  the  city,  to  my 
way  of  thinking,  at  the  present  time, 
you  will  find  not  only  Salix  Alba  but 
Salix  Nigra  as  well;  rare  old  speci- 
mens of  both  varieties.  Maybe  you 
do  not  know  them  by  their  stage 
names,  but  you  will  admire  and  quick- 
ly recognize  them  as  splendid,  vener- 
able willows,  white  and  black,  seamed 
and  scarred  from  years  of  battling  with 
[107] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  elements;  more  attractive  even  in 
their  winter  dishabille  than  when  they 
later  don  their  catkins  and  lanceolated 
foliage.  The  Salix  outfit  may  not  con- 
tribute much  to  the  lumber  yard  stocks 
of  the  country,  but  they  do  give  us 
charcoal  and  look  well  either  alive  or 
when  blazing  on  a  pair  of  andirons; 
and  the  alba,  a  European  importation, 
with  age  develops  a  girth  and  shaggi- 
ness  that  make  it  a  distinguished  figure 
in  any  wood  in  which  it  may  be  found. 
It  gnarls  and  knots  and  besprouts  its 
various  excrescences  in  a  way  that 
should  get  the  eyes  of  artists.  There 
are  plenty  of  them  in  this  neighbor- 
hood— willows,  I  mean;  not  our  friends 
of  the  Van  Dyke  beards  who  smoke 
old  pipes  and  wear  long  linen  "  dusters  " 
in  their  studios.  A  good  one  standing 
just  opposite  my  study  window  has  a 
hollow  trunk  that  is  a  favorite  refuge 
for  the  squirrels  when  stray  dogs  send 
them  scampering  up  aloft  with  furi- 
ously-beating hearts. 
[108! 


Parkways  and  Willows 


Much  as  I  love  these  shaggy  old 
albas,  the  nigras  with  their  diverging 
trunks  are  a  source  of  even  more  de- 
light. I  have  always  been  fond  of  trees 
having  the  multiple-body  habit,  which 
is  characteristic  of  the  yellow  or  Golden 
Osier  willow,  as  well  as  of  the  black. 
The  osier,  however,  is  not  so  common 
here  in  the  west,  and  I  once  consulted 
the  famous  tree  expert  Romeyn  B. 
Hough  as  to  its  foliage,  so  that  I  might 
not  fail  to  recognize  one  if  by  chance  I 
came  upon  it  during  the  early  spring  or 
summer  months,  and  this  was  his  reply. 
I  did  not  know  before  that  such  a  sim- 
ple question  in  reference  to  such  dainty 
growths  could  call  forth  such  an  explo- 
sion, and  will  quote  verbatim  et  litera- 
tim for  the  benefit  mainly  of  any  little 
ones  who  may  wish  to  get  on  familiar 
terms  with  the  yellow  willow's  plumage : 

"LEAVES  lanceolate,  2-5  in.  long,  tapering 
to  base,  long  acuminate,  finely  serrate,  silky 
hairy  both  sides  when  young,  glabrous  at 
maturity  and  dark  green  above,  paler  and 

[109] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


glaucous  beneath;  stipules  ovate-lanceolate, 
deciduous;  petioles  ^  in.  long  or  less,  slightly 
if  at  all  glandular;  branchlets  glabrous,  bright 
yellow  or  reddish  tinted.  FLOWERS  appear- 
ing with  the  leaves,  aments  terminating  lateral 
leafy  branchlets,  scales  yellowish,  falling  before 
the  ripening  of  the  fruit;  stigmas  nearly  sessile. 
FRUITS  capsules  narrow-avoid,  long-pointed, 
glabrous,  with  very  short  pedicel." 

So  you  see  all  you  have  to  do  to  de- 
termine whether  you  are  looking  at  a 
real  Golden  Osier  or  some  other  wil- 
lowy creation  is  to  note  carefully  as  to 
whether  or  not  the  leaves  are  both 
acuminate  and  serrate,  and  glabrous 
as  well  as  glaucous  underneath,  and 
that  the  stipules  are  ovate-lanceolate! 
But  whatever  you  do  don't  forget  to 
observe  whether  or  not  the  petioles 
are  slightly  glandular.  The  aments 
you  will  know  all  about,  for  that  is 
only  the  botanist's  playful  way  of 
naming  catkins.  The  thing  that  inter- 
ested me  most,  I  remember,  at  the  time 
I  conferred  with  the  author  of  "Ameri- 
can Woods"  and  the  "Handbook  of 
[no] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


the  Trees"  concerning  these  old-world 
willows  was  to  learn  about  their 
"fruit."  I  just  dote  on  long-pointed, 
narrow-ovoid  capsuled  fruits ;  espe- 
cially if  they  be  glabrous!  Don't  you? 
And  when  you  make  certain  that  the 
pedicel  is  short,  then  you  will  begin  to 
suspect  that  you  are  at  last  face  to  face 
with  the  real  Salix  Vitellina.  Before 
committing  yourself  positively,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  just  as  well  to  look  for 
those  nearly-sessile  stigmas,  and  if 
these  measure  up  to  specifications  you 
need  only  bear  in  mind  further  that 
the  Golden  Osier  shows  a  fine  bright 
yellow  when  the  sap  begins  to  rise;  and 
that  it  has  a  short  thick  trunk  some- 
times as  much  as  five  feet  in  diameter 
at  the  base,  which  divides  at  or  near  the 
ground  into  various  sturdy  branches. 
To  see  old  black  and  yellow  willows 
at  their  best  you  should  approach 
them  from  the  water-side.  You  may 
find  them  inland  of  course,  but  they 
are  happiest  with  their  feet  in  a  gently- 
[iii] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


flowing  stream,  in  some  quiet  pool  or 
park  lagoon.  I  know  one  of  these 
made  up  of  ten  separate  distinct  trees, 
all  radiated  from  the  same  root-nest, 
and  these  associated  trunks  do  not 
grow  erect,  but  lean  far  out  across  the 
water  or  stretch  themselves  lovingly 
above  the  turf  that  decks  the  shoreline 
of  a  little  lake.  And  within  their  shelter- 
ing embrace  may  be  found  that  which 
cannot  be  bought  on  Broadway,  and 
does  not  exist  at  all  in  Fifth  Avenue. 
I  suppose  ten  thousand  automobiles 
go  rushing  by  the  Matthew  Laflin 
Memorial  building  in  the  park  every 
day.  Now  and  then  some  vagrant  like 
myself,  on  the  lookout  for  something 
not  to  be  seen  in  city  streets,  drops  in. 
Once  in  a  long  while  a  machine  may 
turn  off  the  main  drive  and  its  occu- 
pants enter  the  halls  where  the  Academy 
of  Sciences  under  Frank  M.  Woodruff's 
able  direction  is  doing  so  much  to 
recall  the  pristine  glories  of  the  marshes, 
dunes  and  woodlands  of  pre-historic 
[112] 


Parkways  and  Willows 


Chicago.  The  children  fortunately 
come  in  schools  to  rave  over  the  won- 
derful habitat  settings  of  birds  and 
beasts  and  bugs  and  flowers  there  pre- 
sented. Beginning  with  the  sand  dunes 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  lake — with  real 
sand  from  the  dunes,  real  driftwood 
from  the  beach,  and  mounted  speci- 
mens of  nearly  every  form  of  wild  life 
known  to  have  inhabited  that  still  un- 
tamed wilderness,  and  with  a  marvel- 
ously-wrought-out  panoramic  back- 
ground perfecting  the  illusion  of  the 
scene,  the  wild  life  of  early  Chicago's 
environs  will  here  have  adequate  and 
altogether  admirable  presentation. 
Passing  from  the  dunes  to  the  Calumet 
region  the  open  channels  and  the  reedy 
recesses  dear  to  the  water-fowl  of  the 
early  days  are  shown  with  an  almost 
startling  fidelity  to  Nature.  Thence 
the  panorama  is  to  lead  one  through 
the  woods  and  streams  and  prairies 
lying  to  the  westward  of  the  great  city, 
and  on  around  through  the  oaks  and 
[113] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


sands  of  the  old  North  Shore  back  to 
the  lake  again.  When  the  comprehen- 
sive scheme  is  brought  to  its  comple- 
tion, one  of  the  finest  exhibits  of  its 
character  in  the  country  will  have  been 
installed  for  the  benefit  of  future  gen- 
erations. The  present  one  shows  a  lot 
more  interest  in  paved  streets  and 
granite  skyscrapers  than  in  the  dry 
leaves  and  rocks  and  underbrush  where 
foxes,  wolves  and  weasels  once  had 
winter  quarters. 

Overhead  the  eagles,  geese  and  owls, 
the  ducks  and  terns  and  hawks,  and 
all  the  feathered  generations  that  once 
dwelled  roundabout  Chicago's  site,  sus- 
pended from  long  wires,  are  in  full 
flight — true  to  life.  Most  Chicagoans 
at  present,  however,  are  more  inter- 
ested in  the  flight  of  oil  and  motor 
stocks,  and  the  soaring  quotations  for 
shoes  and  sugar.  However,  there  will 
always  be  a  few  who  will  find  these 
splendid  reproductions  of  native  swamp 
and  field  and  forest  scenes  a  source  of 


Parkways  and  Willows 


profitable  reflection  and  contempla- 
tion— recalling  to  those  whose  tem- 
perament responds  at  all  to  such  vivid 
appeals,  the  wealth  of  freedom  that 
has  been  lost  in  the  onward  rush  of 
civilization.  But  the  dunes  still  hold 
much  of  their  virgin  character.  There 
the  fox  still  is  trapped  within  sight  of 
steel-mill  smoke,  and  the  heron  and 
the  owl  sweep  down  the  sands  as  when 
this  weird  wilderness  was  young. 

I  am  in  favor  of  knocking  down  that 
behemoth  or  Goliath  of  Lincoln  Park 
statuary  known  as  Goethe,  and  sub- 
stituting bronzes  of  Earl  Reed,  the 
poet-artist  and  Woodruff,  the  facsimile 
reproducer  of  the  dunes.  Why  is  it 
people  don't  know  enough  to  duly 
honor  their  own  worthy  ones  ?  I  know 
of  a  presentation  copy  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  "Vanity  Fair  "to  the  Marchion- 
ess of  Normanby,  with  an  original 
drawing  by  Thackeray  of  Mr.  Punch 
presenting  a  copy  of  his  book,  that  can 
be  bought  for  £1,200.  Well,  you  may 
[iiSl 


In  Winter  Quarters 


buy  it  if  you  like,  but  I  would  certainly 
not  think  of  exchanging  for  it,  on  even 
terms — so  far  as  my  personal  interest 
in  the  subject  matter  is  concerned — a 
copy  of  the  first  edition  of  "The  Dune 
Country,"  with  an  original  pencil 
sketch  upon  the  title  page  entitled,  "A 
bit  of  Michigan  Shore,"  with  its  in- 
scription, "Drawn  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Alvin  H.  Sanders  at  the  request  of  my 
friend  Mrs.  French,  Apr.  6,  '17,"  and 
autographed,  "Earl  H.  Reed." 

On  some  occasion  I  remember  to 
have  received  a  birthday  or  other  anni- 
versary card,  carrying  this  sentiment: 
"I  love  you  because  you  love  the 
things  that  I  love."  All  of  which  turns 
my  thoughts  back  to  "A  week  on  the 
Concord  and  Merrimac  rivers,"  with 
my  favorite  companion  Henry  D.  Thor- 
eau,  and  as  he  discourses  upon  Friend- 
ship I  hear  him  say:  "As  I  love 
nature,  as  I  love  singing  birds  and 
gleaming  stubble,  and  flowing  rivers 
and  morning  and  evening,  and  summer 
and  winter,  I  love  thee,  my  Friend." 
Fii61 


IX 

Behind  Iron  Bars 

THERE  are  certain  other  friends 
I  should  like  to  have  you  meet. 
They  may  amuse  or  entertain  you 
well,  but  I  had  much  rather  have  you 
say  that  they  excite  your  pity  or  com- 
passion when  you  see  them.  They  are 
of  the  animal  not  the  vegetable  king- 
dom; so  if  you  prefer  to  go  downtown 
and  sit  in  the  Pompeian  room  and 
study  the  human  "zoo,"  all  well  and 
good.  I  have  no  objections.  Every 
one  to  his  taste.  In  that  case  I  will  go 
alone,  as  usual,  to  speak  a  sympa- 
thetic word  to  those  behind  iron  bars. 
I  have  come  to  know  most  of  them,  not 
by  any  individual  names,  but  by  their 
respective  personalities  and  peculiar- 


In  Winter  Quarters 


ities;  and  there  are  as  many  different 
natures,  as  many  varied  moods,  as 
many  diverse  types  to  be  discovered 
inside  these  cages  as  you  will  find 
within  the  walls  of  human  habitation. 
Eat,  drink,  pace  up  and  down — then 
sleep!  That  is  the  captive's  lot.  And 
any  experienced  prisoner  will  tell  you 
that  the  greatest  of  these  is  sleep! 

I  never  look  down  into  those  bear- 
pits,  and  the  adjacent  enclosures  where 
the  foxes,  wolves  and  coyotes  hold 
their  court,  without  thinking  of  a  sight 
I  once  saw  inside  a  penitentiary.  Only 
here  in  these  pits  the  poor  devils  are 
all  in  for  the  full  term  of  their  natural 
(or  rather,  I  should  say,  unnatural) 
lives,  and  against  such  a  sentence  of 
course  no  credit  whatsoever  for  good 
behavior  runs.  And  their  only  offense 
is  that  they  were  born  subject  to 
this  man-handling  of  their  respective 
destinies. 

How  to  be  happy  though  hopeless! 
That  is  a  problem  successfully  solved, 
[118] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


I  imagine,  by  mighty  few  people  in 
this  world;  and  a  more  or  less  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  birds  and  beasts 
on  view  in  the  collection  housed  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  our  own  front  door 
brings  out  once  again  the  thought  that 
after  all  there  is  no  great  difference, 
when  it  comes  to  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  mere  physical  existence,  between 
men  and  other  animals. 

So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover 
through  numerous  visits,  there  are  but 
two  or  three  specimens  in  this  par- 
ticular assemblage,  gathered  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  that  do  not  seem  to 
care  a  rap  about  confinement.  There 
is  a  "roly-poly"  grizzly  that  is  obvi- 
ously happy.  He  is  a  living  picture  of 
contentment.  He  finds  the  peanuts 
flung  into  his  cage  exactly  to  his  liking. 
If  you  stop  and  do  not  toss  him  one, 
he  is  very  apt  to  sit  up  on  his  haunches, 
and  give  the  "high  sign"  of  his  expec- 
tation. And  if  you  throw  his  way  the 
morsel  he  so  dearly  loves  you  can  rest 
[119] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


assured  he  will  catch  it  as  unerringly 
as  a  crack  first-baseman  gets  a  ball 
hot  from  the  pitcher's  box.  And  how 
he  reveled  in  the  snow  that  fell  just 
before  the  Christmas  holidays!  Over 
and  over  he  rolled,  twisting  and  turn- 
ing in  his  thick  fur  overcoat.  A  soup 
bone  he  had  previously  cleaned  caught 
the  ursine  comedian's  fancy.  Flat  on 
his  broad  fat  back  he  grabs  it  and 
begins  real  Japanese  juggling  stunts. 
Balancing  the  bone  upon  his  paws  he 
throws  it  in  the  air,  catches  it  as  it 
falls,  laughing  heartily  at  his  own 
clumsy  cleverness.  A  black  bear  next 
door  is  copying  friend  grizzly's  peanut- 
begging  tactics,  but  has  not  the  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  the  sheer  good 
nature  that  radiates  always  from  his 
Rocky  Mountain  brother. 

Apropos  of  the  snow,  the  polars 
actually  were  half-way  comfortable  for 
a  time  while  the  blizzard  raged. 
Sprawled  out  on  their  "tummies" 
with  legs  extended  fore  and  aft  so  that 
[120] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


they  might  get  their  bodies  in  closer 
contact  with  the  cold  they  miss  so 
much,  these  wretched  convicts  had 
actually  a  few  really  wonderful  mo- 
ments. They  have  dens  in  the  rear  of 
their  open-air  compartment  where  they 
are  supposed  to  pass  the  night,  and 
while  the  snow  was  falling  fast  they 
took  occasion  to  paw  and  scrape 
quantities  of  it  into  their  sleeping 
quarters.  Yes,  it  is  an  ill  wind  that 
blows  nobody  good! 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  these  prod- 
ucts of  the  frozen  North  are  white? 
We  do  not  think  of  wearing  white 
flannels  during  the  winter  months  here 
in  our  latitude.  Dark,  rich  colors 
seem  to  meet  the  human  idea  of  suit- 
ability for  zero  weather  conditions. 
Come  to  think  of  it  though  men-folk 
born  considerable  distances  from  the 
equator  do  wear  white — I  mean  in  a 
state  of  nature.  The  black  and  bronze 
races  appertain  specially  to  lands  of 
the  sun. 

[121] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


It  is  because  so  many  of  the  Inmates 
of  the  "zoo"  are  natives  of  either  tor- 
rid or  frigid  zones  that  their  confine- 
ment here  condemns  them  to  much 
suffering.  True,  you  can  make  that 
elephant  and  her  neighbors  the  pythons 
and  giraffe  comfortable  here  in  January 
with  a  sufficient  steam  pressure,  and 
in  the  summer  it  gets  quite  hot  enough 
to  meet  their  inborn  notions  of  cli- 
mate out-of-doors.  But  white  bears 
have  no  escape  from  our  100  degree 
dog-day  torments.  So  I  figure  that 
they  are  worse  off  here  than  anybody 
else.  And  they  look  it,  and  act  it. 
They  are  sure-enough  neurasthenics. 
To  watch  them  going  through  that 
endless  forward-and-back,  side  step- 
ping, head-tossing  performance  for  any 
great  length  of  time  almost  gives  me 
"the  willies."  I  should  like  to  see 
them — at  safe  distance — in  their  own 
possessions,  the  snowy  wilderness  and 
floating  bergs,  but  in  Lincoln  Park 
accommodations  during  August  I  can't 
[122] 


Photo  by  R.  F.  Hildebrand 
HOME  WAS  NEVER  LIKE  THIS 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


see  how  they  appeal  to  anybody. 
And  now  you  big  game  hunters  and 
all  others  who  find  " sport"  or  pleasure 
or  satisfaction  or  something  else  in 
killing,  not  for  food,  but  in  cold  blood, 
creatures  having  the  same  right  to 
live  that  you  claim  for  yourself,  I 
insist  upon  a  reading  of  the  following 
from  the  pen  of  John  Muir,  the  famous 
explorer  of  wild  places,  mountaineer, 
geologist  and  fascinating  writer.  And 
I  want  you  to  read  it  to  the  very  last 
sentence.  It  may  be  found  in  "The 
Cruise  of  the  Corwin:" 

"The  grand  excitement  of  the  day,  apart 
from  the  untrodden  shore  we  were  seeking, 
was  caused  by  three  polar  bears,  magnificent 
fellows,  fat  and  hearty,  rejoicing  in  their 
strength  out  here  in  the  bosom  of  the  icy  wilder- 
ness. When  discovered,  they  were  regarding  us 
attentively  from  a  large  cake  of  ice,  each  on  a 
hummock  commanding  a  good  view  of  the 
ship,  an  object  they  no  doubt  saw  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives.  One  of  them  was  perched 
on  top  of  a  pile  of  blocks,  the  topmost  of  which 
was  a  pedestal  square  and  level  as  if  built  up 


In  Winter  Quarters 


for  an  outlook.  He  sat  erect  and,  as  he  was 
nearly  the  color  of  the  ice,  was  not  noticed 
until  we  were  quite  near.  They  watched, 
motionless  for  some  time,  throwing  forward 
their  long  necks  and  black-tipped  noses  as  if 
trying  to  catch  and  pass  judgment  on  the 
scent  of  the  big,  smoking,  black  monster  that 
was  approaching  them. 

"When  we  were  within  about  fifty  yards  of 
them,  they  started,  walked  a  step  or  two,  and 
turned  to  gaze  again  as  the  strange  object 
came  nearer.  Then  they  showed  fear  and 
began  to  lumber  along  over  and  across  the 
wavelike  rough  hills  and  dales  of  the  ice, 
afraid,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  their 
lives.  For  polar  bears  are  the  master  exist- 
ences of  these  frozen  regions,  the  walruses 
being  no  match  for  them.  First  they  broke 
into  a  lumbering  trot;  then,  into  a  panicky, 
walloppy  gallop,  with  fewer  and  fewer  halts 
to  look  back,  until  they  reached  the  far  side 
of  the  ice-field  and  plunged  into  the  water 
with  a  splash  that  sent  the  spray  ten  feet  into 
the  air.  Then  they  swam;  making  all  haste 
towards  a  larger  floe.  If  they  could  have 
gained  it  they  would  have  made  good  their 
retreat.  But  the  steamer  gave  chase  at  the 
rate  of  seven  knots  an  hour,  headed  them  off, 
and  all  were  shot  without  the  least  chance  of 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


escape,  and  without  their  being  able  to  offer 
the  slightest  resistance. 

"The  first  one  overtaken  was  killed  in- 
stantly at  the  second  shot,  which  passed 
through  the  brain.  The  other  two  were  fired 
at  by  five  fun-,  fur-,  and  fame-seekers,  with 
heavy  breech-loading  rifles,  about  forty  times 
ere  they  were  killed.  From  four  to  six  bullets 
passed  through  their  necks  and  shoulders 
before  the  last  through  the  brain  put  an  end 
to  their  agony.  The  brain  is  small  and  not 
easily  penetrated,  except  from  the  side  of  the 
head,  while  their  bodies  may  be  shot  through 
and  through  a  score  of  times,  apparently, 
without  disabling  them  for  fighting  or  swim- 
ming. When  a  bullet  went  through  the  neck, 
they  would  simply  shake  their  heads  without 
making  any  sort  of  outcry,  the  effect  being 
simply  to  hasten  their  flight.  The  same  was 
true  of  most  other  wounds.  But  occasionally, 
when  struck  in  the  spine,  or  shoulder,  the  pain 
would  make  them  roar,  and  groan,  and  turn 
to  examine  the  spot,  or  to  snap  at  the  wound 
as  if  seeking  an  enemy.  They  would  dive 
occasionally,  and  swim  under  water  a  few 
yards.  But,  being  out  of  breath,  they  were 
always  compelled  to  come  up  in  a  minute  or 
so.  They  had  no  chance  whatever  for  their 
lives,  and  the  whole  affair  was  as  safe  and 


In  Winter  Quarters 


easy  a  butchery  as  shooting  cows  in  a  barn- 
yard from  the  roof  of  the  barn.  It  was  pro- 
longed, bloody  agony,  as  clumsily  and  heart- 
lessly inflicted  as  it  could  well  be,  except  in 
the  case  of  the  first,  which  never  knew  what 
hurt  him. 

"The  Eskimos  hunt  and  kill  them  for  food, 
going  out  to  meet  them  on  the  ice  with  spears 
and  dogs.  This  is  merely  one  savage  living 
on  another.  But  how  civilized  people,  seeking 
for  heavens  and  angels  and  millenniums,  and 
the  reign  of  universal  peace  and  love,  can 
enjoy  this  red,  brutal  amusement,  is  not  so 
easily  accounted  for.  Such  soft,  fuzzy,  senti- 
mental aspirations,  and  the  frame  of  mind 
that  can  reap  giggling,  jolly  pleasure  from  the 
blood  and  agony  and  death  of  these  fine 
animals,  with  their  humanlike  groans,  are  too 
devilish  for  anything  but  hell.  Of  all  the 
animals  man  is  at  once  the  worst  and  the  best. 

"Two  of  the  bears  were  hoisted  on  board, 
the  other  was  neglected  until  it  could  not  be 
found.  Then  came  the  vulgar  business  of 
skinning  and  throwing  the  mangled  carcasses 
back  into  the  clean  blue  water  among  the  ice. 
The  skins  were  stretched  on  frames  to  be  dried 
and  taken  home  to  show  angelic  sweethearts 
the  evidence  of  pluck  and  daring." 

[126] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


There  is  an  Eskimo  dog  in  one  of  the 
runways  that  divides  with  the  fat 
grizzly  already  mentioned  the  honor  of 
being  quite  resigned  to  his  job,  only 
he  never  really  knew  what  freedom  is. 
He  has  escaped  the  drudgery  that  falls 
to  the  lot  of  his  former  canine  comrades 
in  the  sledge-hauling  business,  and  he 
knows  it.  You  will  see  him  usually 
with  a  real  smile  upon  his  friendly  face, 
and  he  often  romps  and  waves  his  up- 
curved  bushy  tail  in  absolutely  infec- 
tious glee.  A  favorite  pastime  in  his 
case  is  racing  up  and  down  a  high 
partition  fence,  barking  and  snarling 
savagely  in  mock-heroic  combat  with 
a  big  grey  wolf  next  door,  pretending 
that  he  is  just  dying  to  sink  his  fangs 
in  the  lupine  throat,  and  "brer  wolf" 
goes  to  the  sport  as  if  he  really  meant 
business.  Together  they  tear  franti- 
cally through  this  impossible  finish- 
fight;  the  only  difference  being  that 
the  wolf  seems  to  take  it  seriously  and 
is  really  spoiling  for  the  fray,  whereas 
[127] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  dog  is  only  bluffing  and  doesn't  care 
who  knows  it.  Lots  of  folks  are  good  at 
that  same  sort  of  game,  when  it  is 
equally  safe  to  play  it. 

The  members  of  the  coyote  pack 
have  not  forgotten  how  to  howl.  Three 
or  four  times  a  day,  and  always  once 
in  the  early  morning  hours,  they  join 
in  the  shrill  staccato  chorus  that  may 
be  heard  for  blocks,  bringing  the  weird 
music  of  the  foothills  and  the  plains  to 
our  very  doors.  I  never  tire  of  that. 
It  calls  to  something  somewhere  deep 
down  in  my  nature.  Why  is  it?  Why 
do  those  short,  sharp  notes,  rising  and 
falling  in  savage  cadence,  bring  a  never 
failing  response?  I  should  have  been 
born  and  should  have  lived  I  suppose 
where  that  challenge  would  have  had 
a  deeper  meaning.  Thus  are  the  pri- 
mordial instincts  of  the  cave  preserved 
and  handed  down  by  the  subtle  force 
of  heredity  through  all  the  generations. 
And  I  have  a  stone  hammer  I  once 
found  in  the  Black  Hills  country  that 
[128] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


I  often  take  in  my  hand  and  feel  at 
home  with  it. 

One  of  these  coyotes  looks  as  if  he 
might  be  quite  amenable  to  human 
influences,  and  would  not  resent  human 
companionship.  I  have  no  doubt  he 
has  killed  more  than  one  innocent  lamb 
out  on  the  range,  for  I  know  his  taste 
for  that  form  of  food.  But  he  is  an 
amiable-looking  rascal  and  socially  in- 
clined. Moreover,  he  has  the  springi- 
est, easiest,  steadiest,  most  alluring 
trot  I  ever  saw.  I  have  certainly  seen 
that  self-same  coyote  once  before.  I 
can't  just  remember  when  or  where; 
but  he  was  jogging  down  a  long,  long, 
lonely  trail,  headed  for  the  eternal 
hills  where  skies  were  blue  and  the  air 
was  as  wine,  and  the  world  was  spread 
before  me  in  all  its  unspoiled  glory! 

Talk  about  "ruminating!"  The 
most  inveterate  "chewers"  I  know  are 
the  bulls,  cows,  yearlings  and  two-year- 
olds  comprising  the  buffalo  herd.  Too 
bad  the  carnivorous  crowd  have  no 
[129] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


cuds.  The  habit  seems  so  conducive 
to  peace  of  mind.  If  those  tigers, 
leopards,  lions  and  other  cats  could 
only  settle  down  and  munch  away  on 
a  little  roll  of  something  they  might 
not  be  so  dissatisfied  and  nervous. 

The  bisons  were  of  course  bred  in 
captivity.  They  never  saw  the  plains, 
prairies  and  Bad  Lands  of  the  West. 
They  eat  good  hay  and  lie  around  the 
lot  in  stolid  comfort,  just  as  any  other 
domesticated  bovine  would.  They  may 
dream  sometimes  of  grassy  unfenced 
worlds,  but  are  much  safer  here  from 
arrowheads  and  rifle-balls  than  were 
their  free  progenitors.  Their  archi- 
tecture is  not  altogether  understand- 
able. I  know  that  old  bull's  head 
outweighs  his  body.  His  front  and 
rear  do  not  seem  to  match.  His  hind- 
quarters would  pass  through  a  good- 
sized  crack  in  a  barn-door,  but  you 
would  have  to  knock  out  the  whole 
end  of  the  building  to  get  his  shoulders 
in.  I  don't  see  how  he  could  gallop 
[130] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


through  the  sage  brush  and  the  cactus 
without  turning  somersaults  every 
fifteen  feet  from  lack  of  proper  counter- 
poise. But  his  grandsire  could,  and 
did. 

The  buffalo  calves  are  cute  little 
runts.  Look  at  that  one  alongside  the 
woven  wire  fence  with  his  nose  poked 
through  the  open  mesh  licking  the  lips 
of  a  great  ungainly  Siberian  camel  that 
seems  to  enjoy  the  lingual  bufFalonian 
caress.  An  exchange  of  amenities  be- 
tween the  Occident  and  Orient  is  obvi- 
ously in  progress;  a  situation  rather 
more  pacific  in  its  aspects  truly  than 
that  projected  in  the  shadow  of  these 
fateful  League-of-Nations  days.  The 
particular  Asiatic  of  which  I  speak  has 
a  self-satisfied  look  upon  his  docile 
countenance,  but  how  he  endures  the 
swaying  of  those  two  enormous  humps 
of  fat  that  threaten  to  topple  off  his 
back  every  time  he  moves  is  something 
hard  to  comprehend.  And  that  great 
siphoned  neck  in  cultured  camel  circles 
[131] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


is  no  doubt  considered  graceful  beyond 
the  wildest  of  all  desert  dreams. 

Do  you  know  the  Wapiti  ?  Well,  they 
are  just  elk.  They  are  here  also.  May- 
be from  the  great  herd  that  roams  the 
grand  preserve  men  call  the  park  of 
Yellowstone.  They  are  clearly  ready 
to  go  any  time  they  can.  A  comely 
heifer  wanders  away  to  the  farther 
corner  of  the  yard,  lifts  up  her  fawn- 
like  face,  throws  her  big  ears  forward, 
looks  yearningly  in  the  far  distance  and 
gives  utterance  to  a  plaintive  little  cry; 
but  the  mountain  meadows  shall  not 
know  her  hoof-prints. 

You  may  like  Simians.  I  do  not. 
Monkeys,  baboons  and  apes  look  and 
act  too  much  like  some  humans  I 
know,  and  am  not  crazy  about.  They 
are  all  busy  these  days  in  their  none- 
too-well  ventilated  hothouse,  bug-hunt- 
ing as  usual.  A  mother  lovingly  looks 
for  "coots"  on  a  baby  breast;  the 
darling  child  throwing  up  its  head  and 
protruding  its  throat  and  chest  so  that 
[132] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


the  maternal  examination  may  be 
thorough.  Let  us  hope  it  is.  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  this  lot,  any  more  than  I 
have  with  mice  or  other  vermin!  They 
can't  help  being  here,  nor  being  what 
they  were  born  to  be.  I  just  don't  care 
for  them.  That's  all. 

The  giant  cats  are  a  moody  lot,  and 
the  barometric  pressure  or  something 
else  seems  to  affect  them  all  alike — • 
that  is  to  say,  they  are  all  in  the  same 
frame  of  mind  apparently  at  the  same 
time.  They  will  either  all  be  asleep,  or 
all  striding  along  the  bars,  or  all  play- 
ful, or  all  "sore"  about  something  dur- 
ing the  same  hour.  That  pair  of  lion 
pups  will  play  like  kittens  if  they  get 
any  encouragement  from  the  rest  of 
the  family,  and  I  have  seen  old  Father 
Leo  there  in  the  corner  cage — as  fine 
a  specimen  of  the  real  Numidian 
monarch  as  you  are  apt  to  find  in  all 
Africa — have  a  lot  of  fun  with  a 
younger  brother  in  the  adjacent  box. 
He  was  holding  his  big  joint  of  raw 
[i33] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


beef  down  between  his  paws  and 
crunching  it  as  easily  as  if  it  were  a 
tenderloin,  when  suddenly  he  thought 
of  teasing  his  next  door  neighbor  with 
it.  Leaping  upon  the  shelf  against  the 
rear  wall  of  his  den,  he  jams  the  joint 
of  beef  against  the  steel  rods  that 
separate  him  from  Leo  Jr.,  and  dares 
him  touch  it.  The  latter  pretends  to 
accept  the  defiance,  and  with  a  bellow 
that  fairly  shakes  the  solid  building  the 
big  boss  jerks  the  bone  away,  rolls 
over  and  down  and  looks  royally  well 
pleased  at  his  little  joke;  and  inciden- 
tally there  can  be  no  sound  in  all  this 
world  more  paralyzing  in  its  effect 
upon  human  ears  than  this  great  lion's 
thunderous  throaty  roar  reverberating 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
that  high-roofed  space  enclosed  in 
brick  and  steel. 

Restlessness  frequently  pervades  the 
really  beautiful  interior  of  the  house  of 
lions.     The   tiger's   fearsome   yell   re- 
sounds throughout  the  hall  that  fits  so 
[i34] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


well  the  dignity  of  the  forest  monarchs 
there  interned.  The  savage  Bengal 
brutes  with  grinning  mouths  are  lead- 
ing the  sad  parade  of  all  the  demons  of 
unrest.  The  lions  now  grown  quarrel- 
some, snap  at  a  keeper  as  he  passes  by. 
The  panthers,  too,  reveal  their  fangs 
and  call  defiantly,  and  leopards  swell 
the  rising  and  falling  fanfare  of  feline 
infelicity. 

I  have  studied  also  that  giraffe  in 
his  endless  travels  round  and  round 
his  narrow  stall.  It  is  a  "one-way 
street"  with  him.  At  least  he  is  always 
going  in  the  same  direction;  never  re- 
versing his  course.  As  he  makes  his 
rounds  he  chews  his  cud,  and  now  and 
then  stops,  with  his  head  of  course  up 
there  somewhere  near  the  roof,  to  con- 
template the  scene  below.  Aviators 
of  the  upper  air  haven't  much  on  him 
as  observaticnists.  He  hasn't  a  great 
big  brain  box,  and  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  diagnose  his  mental  state,  does 
not  seem  to  be  worrying  whether  he  is 
[i3Sl 


In  Winter  Quarters 


going  or  coming.  His  front  and  rear 
have  even  less  in  common  than  that 
buffalo  bull  we  saw  a  while  ago.  How- 
ever, such  small  matters  as  relative 
physical  conformations  are  of  no  real 
consequence  to  any  of  us  because  there 
are  no  common  standards  of  com- 
parison. The  giraffe  unquestionably 
looks  down  upon  man  as  a  mere  freak 
of  nature;  his  own  make-up  being 
from  his  standpoint  the  one  and  only 
correct  anatomical  construction.  The 
question  in  all  cases  is  not  whose  leg 
is  the  longest  or  biggest,  whose  girth 
greatest,  or  whose -feet  are  cloven  or 
webbed.  The  real  query  is:  what  sort 
of  spirit  dwells  within  ?  In  human-kind, 
is  it  that  of  Perseus  or  pugilist?  And 
if  I  had  my  way  there  would  be  no 
prison  pens  for  living  birds  or  beasts 
in  Lincoln  Park  or  any  other.  Mu- 
seums and  taxidermists  are  bad 
enough. 

Meantime,  what  is  the  lesson  of  the 
"zoo"?   Most  of  you  will  say  perhaps 
[136] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


that  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  case  of  the 
happy  grizzly.  That  the  restless,  fret- 
ting creatures  all  around  are  only  com- 
mitting slow  but  certain  suicide.  Un- 
fortunately perhaps  the  eagles  and  the 
mountain  lions  of  this  world  do  not 
yield  their  freedom  easily.  Set  not  up 
therefore  for  their  guidance  the  picture 
of  the  bison  basking  and  blinking  in 
the  sun!  All  creatures  cannot  find  con- 
tent complete  in  chewing  forever  only 
"the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy." 
Some  are  too  highly  organized  for  that. 
Some  cannot  be  satisfied  with  a  life  of 
mere  peanut-catching  or  playing  day 
by  day  with  just  an  old  dry  bone. 
Some  require  a  little  more  than  that — 
or  think  they  do.  Expect  not  there- 
fore the  deer  to  forget  his  native 
forest  haunts.  Know  that  the  keen 
red  fox  will  remember  to  his  dying  day 
his  silent  moors  and  stony  hills.  Tell 
not  the  mallard  to  stop  dreaming  of 
wild  rice  and  open  water.  And  there 
is  ambition's  kindred  call  in  human 
[i37] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


breasts.  Are  those  who  know  and  love 
the  higher  trails  of  this  existence  to  be 
content  with  just  the  bread  and  meat 
that  hold  body  and  soul  together 
overnight?  For  one,  I  glory  in  that 
Bengal  tiger's  stout  refusal  to  be  recon- 
ciled. He  does  not  know  of  course  that 
o'er  the  door  is  written  as  to  him, 
"Abandon  hope  all  ye  who  enter  here." 
And  it  is  well  that  he  is  in  such  blessed 
ignorance  of  that  fact.  For  if  he  knew 
the  truth  he  probably  would  not  try. 
So  in  this  daily  protest  of  these  captive 
beasts,  waiting,  watching  always  for 
the  change  they  all  agree  is  sure  to 
come  some  day  to  them,  we  find  anew 
the  secret  of  the  only  way  the  worth- 
while summits,  each  of  his  own  career, 
are  ever  to  be  reached. 

Not  far  away  the  big  bronze  Shake- 
speare sits  and  meditates.  His  face  is 
ever  toward  the  rising  sun.  Around 
about  him  I  can  always  see  the  ghosts 
of  his  creations,  and  if  you  listen  as  you 
pass,  it  may  be  you  will  hear  stout- 
[138] 


Behind  Iron  Bars 


hearted  Richmond  on  the  eve  of  Bos- 
worth  Field  repeat: 
"True  hope  is  swift  and  flies  with  swallow's 

wings; 
Kings   it   makes   gods   and   meaner   creatures 

kings." 


[139] 


X 

Compelling  Chords 

NOBODY  ever  makes  more  than 
two  or  three  real  sure-enough 
friends.  Those  who  find  more  than  one 
are  rare,  and  are  blessed  accordingly. 
Many  unfortunates  have  none.  This 
is  not  necessarily  because  there  is  no 
one  in  existence  possessing  the  quali- 
ties needed  in  the  particular  case,  but 
rather  because  Fate  has  not  decreed 
that  two  certain  paths  should  cross. 
A  dog  may  live  for  years  before  he 
chances  to  hear  the  one  and  only 
vibration  that  will  force  the  inevitable 
howl.  And  maybe  he  will  die  before 
he  ever  hears  the  all-compelling  note. 
But  if  it  ever  does  fall  upon  the  canine 
ear  he  is  certain  to  recognize  it  in- 
[141] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


stantly,     and    be    profoundly    stirred 
thereby. 

I  once  knew  a  dog  that  never  had 
her  voice  forced  by  any  chord  or  dis- 
chord  whatsoever.  You  could  try  all 
sorts  of  harmonies  or  the  reverse,  test 
her  out  with  all  the  minors,  flats  and 
sharps  known  to  the  scale  without 
audible  answer,  but  strangely  enough 
this  dog  developed  a  most  peculiar 
sensitiveness  in  relation  to  the  Vic- 
trola's  rendition  of  Journet's  basso- 
profundo  solo  from  the  first  act  of 
Meyerbeer's  "Les  Huguenots."  From 
the  very  first  time  she  heard  it  this 
Chow  simply  would  not  stand  for  it. 
You  might  play  everything  you  had  in 
the  box  but  that,  and  she  would  sleep 
on  undisturbed,  but  before  the  first 
measure  of  this  particular  composition 
could  be  reeled  off  the  record  she  would 
look  quickly  up,  extend  her  ears  to 
make  sure  that  she  was  not  mistaken, 
and  then  slowly  rise  to  her  feet,  and 
with  tail  at  half-mast  and  dejection 


Compelling  Chords 


unutterable  written  all  over  her  ex- 
pressive countenance  steal  silently  and 
with  dignity  away — not  to  return  that 
evening.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that 
she  departed  rather  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger,  but  just  what  it  was  that  so 
harrowed  her  unquestionably  fine  feel- 
ings— for  she  was  an  exceptionally 
well-bred  dog — we  were  never  able  to 
fathom. 

However,  I  did  not  set  out  to  write 
of  dogs,  fond  as  I  am  of  good  ones.  We 
can  all  make  friends  among  them,  and 
nowhere  may  fidelity  sublimated  be  so 
frequently  developed  as  in  the  case  of 
the  dog  you  have  cared  for,  nursed  and 
sheltered.  The  point  is  that  if  you  are 
so  fortunate  as  to  meet  the  one  or  the 
two  or  the  three  individuals,  as  the  case 
may  be,  who  possess  that  which  is 
perfectly  keyed  to  your  own  spirit, 
you  will  know  it  just  as  unerringly  as 
Fido  realizes  when  his  nerves  are 
played  upon  by  the  singing  of  some 
one  certain  wire  or  string.  And,  on 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  contrary,  as  in  the  strange  case  of 
Lady  Chow,  most  of  us  seem  to  be 
endowed  with  some  form  of  mental 
antennae  with  which  we  sense  with 
equal  assurance  those  who  "make  us 
tired;"  just  as  the  cat's  whiskers  warn 
her  that  the  hole  is  not  wide  enough 
to  admit  the  feline  head. 

As  in  real  life,  so  in  the  book-shelves. 
Here,  too,  you  will  meet  all  manner  of 
people.  And  here  also  you  may  be 
lucky  enough  to  find  somebody  whose 
presence  you  can  bear,  and  whose  com- 
panionship, in  some  subtle  irresistible 
way,  brings  something  satisfying  that 
you  have  perhaps  previously  sought 
without  finding.  When  you  strike  the 
real  thing  that  comes  straight  home 
you  will  need  no  telling.  You  will 
recognize  the  work  at  once  as  really 
your  own.  The  thoughts  are  exactly 
your  own  thoughts.  How  did  the 
writer  happen  to  know  your  own  mind 
so  perfectly?  The  ideas  expressed  are 
by  no  means  new  or  exclusive  with  the 
[144] 


Compelling  Chords 


author.  All  he  has  done  is  to  put  in 
language,  which  you  follow  with  joy 
and  satisfaction,  the  very  things  you 
have  thought  for  years,  but  had  never 
undertaken  to  communicate  to  others. 
Possibly  you  may  never  have  tried  to 
do  so.  Perhaps  you  questioned  your 
own  powers.  Perchance  you  figured 
that  there  were  not  enough  people  in 
the  world  who  care  for  a  dark  path 
through  a  pine  forest,  for  instance,  to 
warrant  you  in  trying  to  say  anything 
about  it  to  anybody  else.  You  just 
kept  on  at  your  job  in  some  counting- 
room,  store,  law  office  or  factory,  wear- 
ing out  soul  and  good  shoe  leather — 
trying  to  pile  up  cash  enough  to  buy 
something  that  would  probably  fail 
to  bring  you  the  long-anticipated  pleas- 
ure by  the  time  you  were  able  to 
obtain  it — and  yet  all  the  time  the 
picture  of  that  woodland  trail  could 
not  be  altogether  banished.  And  some 
day,  some  night,  you  will  fall  in  with 
some  writer  who  has  allowed  himself 


In  Winter  Quarters 


to  think  out  loud  on  some  such  secretly 
cherished  subject,  and  if  he  be  just 
honest,  frank  and  fearless  in  telling 
the  truth,  even  at  the  risk  of  being 
called  a  "crank"  or  a  sentimentalist, 
he  will  contribute  something  to  the 
library  that  will  be  found  genuine 
some  day,  and  may  be  helpful  through 
all  the  generations.  Horace  has  been 
dead  near  two  thousand  years,  and 
the  prophets  longer  than  that,  but 
they  still  walk  up  and  down  the  world 
clad  in  immortality.  There  were  prize- 
fighters and  money-changers  also  in 
their  time.  I  don't  happen  to  remem- 
ber any  of  their  names,  however.  Do 
you? 

Many  months-of-moons  ago  the  boy 
who  had  made  the  big  O  wildcats  in 
his  books  became  part  of  an  office 
equipment.  The  other  furniture  in 
the  little  room  consisted  of  a  chair,  a 
desk,  many  books  and  a  hoe  now  trans- 
formed into  a  lead  pencil.  It  was  just 
a  case  of  plain,  everyday  grinding,  and 
[146] 


Compelling  Chords 


for  years  he  toiled  tediously,  some- 
times painfully,  through  days  of  de- 
pression and  discouragement  that 
sometimes  threatened  to  overcome  his 
resistance.  There  were  many  hours 
when  his  mind  wandered  from  his 
work  to  an  old  wood-lot  where  a  figure- 
four  rabbit-trap  used  to  be  set  in  the 
snow  on  clear,  cold,  moonlit  winter 
nights. 

Just  how  many  miles  of  manuscript 
of  a  more  or  less  technical  character 
came  from  his  pencil  point  he  has  never 
taken  the  trouble  to  calculate.  The 
main  thing  is  that  it  somehow  found 
a  market,  bringing  in  enough  bacon 
to  enable  a  few  families  to  keep  the 
wolves  away  from  the  doors.  But 
ever  on  his  ears  fell  the  call  of  the 
quail  along  the  cornfield  fence.  He  was 
still  "seeing  things,"  and  it  was  now 
well  for  him  he  could.  Otherwise  he 
might  not  have  been  able  to  keep  on, 
for  there  are  tragedies  to  be  faced 
along  this  Via  Sacra  of  the  work-a-day 
[i47] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


world;  and  he  who  can  get  inspiration 
from  stones,  and  find  good  fairies 
hidden  within  the  covers  of  certain 
books,  has  something  at  least  to  draw 
against  in  his  day  of  spiritual  need. 

And  one  night  he  found  and  read 
"Walden,"  and  after  that  the  road  to 
Dumbiedykes  was  clear.  The  back- 
logs of  an  open  fire  gave  out  the  smoke 
and  flame  in  which  he  saw  and  re- 
newed acquaintanceship  with  every 
boy  and  bird  and  bush  and  berry  he 
had  ever  known,  and  Vega's  wireless 
message  never  failed.  Thus  came  about 
one  friendship  based  on  letters.  ^ 

I  am  so  fond  of  Thoreau,  just  because 
of  what  he  did  for  me,  that  I  once 
made  a  pilgrimage  of  a  thousand  miles 
to  pass  a  few  hours  in  his  company 
within  the  sacred  groves  that  still 
skirt  Walden's  shore.  Needless  to  say, 
I  missed  not  other  society.  His  spirit 
spoke  from  every  pebble  at  the  water's 
edge,  from  moss  and  fern  and  wild 
birdnote,  from  every  nodding  tree  and 
[148] 


Compelling  Chords 


narrow  winding  trail.  True,  a  Fitch- 
burg  railway  train  was  rumbling  some- 
where in  the  distance,  and  on  the  Con- 
cord road  an  automobile's  honk  was 
heard  instead  of  cries  of  loons  on 
Walden  waves;  but  these  were  the  only 
discordant  notes.  Otherwise  peace 
primeval! 

As  usual  with  me,  I  did  not  find  my- 
self following  the  tourist  crowd  at 
Concord.  The  dear  old  town  with  its 
great  elms,  its  battle-ground,  its  monu- 
ments and  inspiring  Colonial  memories, 
is  properly  visited  annually  by  a  great 
many  good  Americans.  "Its  groves, 
its  streams,  its  houses,  are  haunted  by 
undying  memories,  and  its  hillsides 
and  hollows  are  made  holy  by  the  dust 
that  is  covered  by  their  turf."  A 
native  told  me  that  400,000  visitors 
had  passed  through  the  place  last  year. 
He  might  as  well  have  said  4,000  or 
4,000,000,  so  far  as  my  credulity  was 
concerned.  There  is  no  lack  of  enter- 
prise upon  the  part  of  historical  so- 
[149] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


cieties  in  Massachusetts  towns.  They 
have  done  a  wonderful  work.  Bronze 
tablets  everywhere  abound.  In  fact, 
they  sometimes  supply  so  many  de- 
tails— after  the  fashion  of  the  old 
churchyard  epitaphs — that  at  Concord 
I  fully  expected  every  time  I  turned 
around  to  find  the  spot  well  marked 
where  Ebenezer  Dow  once  sat  or 
Prudence  Prentice  knitted.  Just  where 
Major  Buttrick  ate  his  breakfast  the 
morning  of  the  fight  the  tourist  may 
never  know.  I  was  much  more  inter- 
ested in  the  condition  of  the  pine  trees 
at  the  old  Manse,  and  that  big  chest- 
nut now  flourishing  in  Emerson's  front 
yard. 

French's  "Minute  Man"  will  of 
course  forever  stand  as  the  type  of  the 
stiff-necked  generation  that  lived  in 
the  old  town  dozing  there  in  the  New 
England  hills  in  April,  1776,  under  the 
peace-abiding  name  of  Concord.  If 
there  has  ever  been  any  ruction  in 
which  the  Concordians  did  not  loyally 
[150] 


Compelling  Chords 


and  pugnaciously  participate  I  believe 
it  has  escaped  being  recorded.  Thoreau 
certainly  fired  shots  into  the  artificial- 
ity of  modern  life  that  were  heard  just 
as  far  as  those  of  the  embattled 
farmers,  and  yet  you  will  find  fifty 
tourists  standing  around  where  two 
or  three  Britishers  were  killed  to 
where  you  will  see  one  making  for 
Walden  Pond. 

Apparently  the  average  visitor 
knows  more  of  Emerson  and  Haw- 
thorne and  Louisa  Alcott  than  of  the 
author  of  "Life  in  the  Woods."  I 
am  not  unappreciative,  I  hope,  of  their 
great  contributions  to  our  literature, 
but  I  like  Thoreau  best,  just  as  I  enjoy 
the  swamp  maples  and  water  willows 
at  Concord  bridge  better  than  the 
man-built  arch  that  spans  the  dark 
waters  of  the  tiny  river.  How  the  old 
"nullifier  of  civilization,"  the  "half- 
college  graduate,  half-Algonquin" 
would  have  resented  the  gasoline  in- 
vasion of  those  quiet  sylvan  scenes! 
[151] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Speedometers  are  frequently  over- 
worked on  the  winding  roadways  that 
are  the  pride  of  the  New  England  of 
today,  and  I  could  not  help  but 
wonder  what  Paul  Revere  would  think 
of  my  ride  from  Harvard  Square 
through  Lexington  as  compared  with 
one  he  took  on  horseback  on  a  certain 
memorable  midnight.  Cord-and-rub- 
ber  hoofs  are  the  kind  that  now  do  all 
the  hurrying  down  the  village  streets. 
Another  thing  that  would  surely  rouse 
the  ire  of  my  old  friend  is  the  way  in 
which  he  has  been  dressed  up  in  recent 
years  by  Houghton-Mifflin.  I  have 
Lowell  and  Longfellow  and  Emerson 
and  Holmes  in  really  nice  full-calf 
bindings,  and  in  an  evil  moment  added 
a  set  of  Thoreau  in  the  same  good 
garb,  for  which  outrage  upon  his  simple 
taste  I  humbly  beg  his  pardon.  Plain 
cloth  is  dressy  enough  for  "The  Maine 
Woods,"  but  muskrat,  mink  or  beaver 
skin  would  surely  be  a  lot  more  be- 
coming to  the  dear  old  tramp. 


Compelling  Chords 


Thoreau  was  to  me  as  cooling  water 
to  a  thirsty  wanderer  in  a  desert  of 
hot  sands;  as  a  breeze  from  across 
green  meadows  stealing  like  a  bene- 
diction into  a  stifling  prison  cell;  as  the 
call  of  wild-fowl  flying  high  above  the 
busy  haunts  of  men.  I  loved  the  good 
old  Indian  from  the  first.  I  love  him 
still,  and  shall  walk  with  him  till  the 
last. 

While  upon  the  subject  of  books,  I 
held  one  in  my  hand  the  other  day 
inside  a  fireproof  vault,  where  many 
literary  treasures  are  in  storage,  valued 
at  $15,000.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  the 
fads  and  fancies  of  the  ancient  and 
honorable  guild  of  rare  book  collectors, 
but  I  do  desire  to  file  my  protest 
against  a  fashion  that  runs  mad  over 
Boswell,  Lamb  and  Browning,  Shelley, 
Keats  and  Byron,  Trollope,  Thackeray 
and  Dickens,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
Thos.  Hardy  and  Oscar  Wilde — in 
brief  John  Bulliana — and  yet  has  no 
room  upon  its  shelves  for  either  classi- 
[i53] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


cal,  French,  Italian  or  American  liter- 
ary triumphs. 

I  am  not  yet  quite  a  collector.  There 
is  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  in  me 
moderate  possibilities  of  one.  I  began 
collecting  rare  books  for  pot-boiling 
purposes  long  ago.  I  borrowed  $1,000 
to  buy  some  annotated  sets  that  later 
proved  a  gold  mine  throughout  an 
editorial  apprenticeship.  These  were 
works  of  reference  upon  a  more  or  less 
technical  subject,  and  possessed  no 
literary  value.  They  have  some  of  my 
own  notes  in  them  now,  but  I  doubt 
if  the  whole  lot  would  bring  twenty 
per  cent  of  what  they  cost  more  than 
thirty  years  ago.  They  have  served 
their  purpose  along  with  a  lot  of  bound 
manuscripts,  long  since  consigned  to 
the  rubbish  heap.  But  down  in  Phila- 
delphia the  other  day — the  city  that 
has  streets  named  for  all  sorts  of 
beautiful  trees,  with  no  trees  on  them — 
I  saw  in  Rosenbach's  famous  stock 
various  "association"  books  that  are 
[iS4l 


Compelling  Chords 


quoted  at  high  prices.  "Association" 
books  and  "Presentation"  copies  are 
held  in  greater  veneration  by  your  col- 
lector "fan"  than  first  editions.  An 
"Association"  book  may  be  one  that 
derives  its  special  value  from  the  fact 
that  it  once  belonged  to  some  lion  of 
the  literary  world.  It  may  not  be  of 
any  possible  interest  of  itself,  and  it 
may  be  in  an  uncertain  state  of  preser- 
vation, but  if  Wordsworth  once  owned 
it,  and  after  writing  his  name  in  it, 
gave  it  away  to  his  second  cousin's 
great  aunt  or  something  like  that,  it 
may  cost  you  $600  to  place  it  on  your 
own  book-shelves.  You  can  buy 
Thackeray's  old  school  algebra,  if  you 
want  it,  for  $500.  You  can  get  the  last 
presentation  copy  Shelley  made  of 
"  Prometheus  Unbound  "  —  first  edi- 
tion— for  $5,000.  What  the  next  to  the 
last  one  the  poet  gave  away  may  be 
worth  deponent  knoweth  not. 

Far  be  it  from  me,  however,  to  dis- 
parage such  evidences  of  interest  in 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  work  and  in  the  goods  and  chattels 
of  the  shining  lights  of  English  litera- 
ture. Wealthy  men  may  make  a  lot 
worse  use  of  their  money.  There  is  a 
set  of  Shakespeare  I  would  not  mind 
owning,  but  for  a  little  matter  of 
$35,000,  standing  in  front  of  it.  But 
when  I  asked  what  was  on  sale  of 
special  interest  relating  to  Thoreau  and 
Longfellow,  there  was  a  vacuum.  I 
might  give  the  price  of  a  Ford  for 
something  that  was  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  the  authors  of  "Walden"  and 
"Evangeline."  By  the  way,  there  is  a 
little  burial-ground  near  the  corner  of 
Spruce'  and  Ninth  Streets  in  the  city  of 
Penn,  where  it  is  said  that  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  the  poet's  plaintive  Acadian 
love  song  lie  side  by  side — the  site 
being  near  that  of  the  old  alms-house 
where  Evangeline  found  and  nursed 
the  long-lost  Gabriel.  They  say  that 
Longfellow  and  Hawthorne  were  to- 
gether when  the  original  Evangeline 
story  was  first  brought  to  their  notice, 
[156! 


Compelling  Chords 


and  that  one  wanted  it  for  a  poem  and 
the  other  for  a  prose  romance,  Haw- 
thorne yielding  the  privilege  of  treat- 
ing it  to  Longfellow.  Personally,  and 
with  all  due  respect  to  the  writer  of 
"The  Scarlet  Letter,"  I  am  very  glad 
he  did,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  the 
opening  stanza.  Do  you  love  majestic 
organ  chords  rising  and  falling  through 
a  great  cathedral's  heights  and 
breadths?  Do  you  know  the  voice  of 
the  wind  roaring  through  the  tops  of 
woodland  giants?  Then  read  and  hear 
the  music  of  the  lines  beginning: 

"This  is  the  forest  primeval!" 

I  inherited  a  few  precious  things; 
only  a  few,  but  none  more  prized 
than  an  autographed  copy  of  William 
Edgar  Marshall's  fine  big  etching  of 
the  author  of  "Evangeline"  and  "Hia- 
watha," the  portrait  bordered  by 
scenes  illustrating  episodes  from  vari- 
ous poems,  and  I  rarely  ever  hear  the 
clock  that  stands  close  by  strike  twelve 
[iS7l 


In  Winter  Quarters 


at  night  without  standing  in  spirit  on 
"The  Bridge"  trying  to  cast  stray 
troubles  off  into  the  sea-ward  current 
that  flows  forever  underneath. 


XI 

Eight  Bells 

THE  ship's  clock  on  the  book- 
shelves by  the  door  has  chimed 
in  admirably  this  evening  with  the 
booming  of  the  surf  beating  heavily 
against  the  shore-line  beyond  the  wil- 
lows and  the  elms,  and  an  old  London 
edition  of  Capt.  Cook's  South  Sea 
voyages  has  also  fitted  in  well  with  the 
big  lake's  voice.  It  was  for  just  such 
occasions  that  I  desired  the  ship  clock's 
congenial  company.  It  will  soon  sound 
the  eight  bells  that  will  announce  a 
wintry  midnight,  and  the  barometer 
by  its  side  explains  the  bellowing  up- 
roar on  the  waterfront. 

The   boy   who   was    always    seeing 
things  in  dumb  walls  and  all  sorts  of 


In  Winter  Quarters 


unheard-of  places  has  since  discovered 
that  when  in  the  mood  he  can  with 
just  a  little  adventitious  aid  summon 
for  his  own  enjoyment  and  entertain- 
ment great  picture  galleries,  through 
which  he  can  wander  at  will  for  hours 
and  forget  that  he  is  really  alone. 
Incidental  reference  has  already  been 
made  to  the  power  in  this  respect  of 
certain  photographs  and'  etchings  that 
form  a  part  of  the  furnishing  of  the 
bookroom.  These  make  their  appeal 
through  the  eye;  but  his  mind  responds 
even  more  readily  and  more  com- 
pletely to  suggestions  coming  in  the 
form  of  sound  waves. 

It  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  this  habit 
of  projecting  one's  self  out  into  space, 
wherever  the  sound  or  the  picture  or 
the  book  may  suggest,  has  its  manifest 
advantages.  It  is  more  comfortable 
and  less  expensive,  for  instance, 
stretched  out  on  a  good  old  davenport, 
to  sail  the  seas  with  Fenimore  Cooper, 
Clark  Russell,  Jack  London  or  Con- 
[160] 


Eight  Bells 


rad,  here  in  Lincoln  Park  West,  than 
actually  to  be  aboard,  and  it  doesn't 
take  many  accessories  to  outfit  such  a 
voyage.  The  stage  is  simply  set.  The 
weather  man  supplies  a  dark  and 
stormy  night,  Lake  Michigan  the  wash 
of  waves,  the  ship's  clock  the  actual 
striking  of  the  nautical  hours,  a  rattling 
story  of  blue  water  in  your  hand  the 
necessary  action;  and  with  a  vivid 
imagination  of  your  own  contrivance — 
you  are  soon  off-shore  and  far  away, 
and  best  of  all  you  will  get  back  in 
time  to  sleep  soundly  in  your  own 
home  cabin.  Moreover,  you  do  not 
have  to  make  any  hurried  runs  for  the 
deck-rail,  at  the  demand  of  a  rebellious 
interior.  I  am  not  always  disturbed 
by  the  rolling  and  pitching  of  the  ship; 
still  I  know  enough  of  mal  de  mer  to 
appreciate  the  feelings  of  the  negro 
soldier  en  route  to  France  who,  when 
asked  if  he  did  not  want  to  see  a  pass- 
ing ship,  remarked,  without  getting 
off  his  back:  "No,  sah!  Ah  don't 
[161] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


want  to  see  no  ship !  What  ah  wants  to 
see  is  ah  tree!"  And  there  are  no  tips 
to  the  stewards,  no  customs  officers  or 
cabbies  to  hold  you  up  at  the  dock. 

Thoreau  tells  us  of  the  nonsense  of 
wanting  to  travel  into  distant  climes 
for  changes  of  air  and  temperature, 
pointing  out  that  if  you  live  anywhere 
in  the  temperate  zones  all  you  have  to 
do  to  get  any  kind  of  climate  you  like 
is  just  to  sit  down  and  wait  for  it,  and 
it  will  come  along  in  due  course.  That 
is  of  course  only  a  quiet  jab  at  the 
fickleness  of  our  weather  conditions, 
and  a  reminder  of  the  terrific  extremes 
of  heat  and  cold  to  which  we  are  each 
calendar  year  subjected;  but  it  is  worth 
thinking  about.  And  so  with  traveling. 
That  can  easily  be  managed  at  home. 

There  is  a  tiny  French  clock  out 
there  in  the  drawing-room.  I  do  not 
have  to  get  tickets  and  passports  to 
visit  Versailles.  I  have  only  to  shut 
off  the  lights  save  those  of  the  crystal 
chandelier,  seat  myself  in  one  of  those 
[162] 


Eight  Bells 


old  Bergeres,  look  at  "The  Return  ot 
Lafayette,"  close  my  eyes  and  wait  for 
the  silvery  tinkle  of  that  little  bell,  and 
voila!  la  belle  Marie!  Or  Richelieu! 
The  romance  of  the  courts  of  France! 
Gay  silks  and  powdered  wigs!  Jewels 
and  perfumes  rare !  Old  lace  and  roses ! 
Way  down  the  back  hall,  encased  in 
heavy  mahogany,  another  timepiece, 
armed  with  thought-compelling  chimes, 
stands  up  against  the  wall,  and  ham- 
mers away  of  Westminster!  London 
bridge!  The  Tower!  High  Holborn! 
The  Savoy  or  Piccadilly  Circus!  Hand 
me  that  old  copy  of  Ainsworth's 
"Windsor  Castle,"  bring  my  dressing 
gown  and  slippers,  and  with  the  deep- 
toned  music  of  those  imprisoned  tubes 
of  heavy  brass,  I  shall  soon  be  standing 
by  Herne's  haunted  oak  waiting  for 
the  spectral  huntsman  and  the  legend- 
ary hounds  to  start  their  thrilling  mid- 
night chase  along  the  moonlit  glades! 
And  Anne  Boleyn  flirts  gaily  on  her 
frivolous  way! 

[163] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


There  is  the  same  steady,  high- 
pitched  humming  in  the  wind  tonight 
I  heard  one  wild  day  on  the  Mersey, 
when,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  shipping  of 
half  the  world  was  riding  at  anchor  in 
a  gusty  gale  that  was  tearing  its  savage 
way  up  Channel  to  the  granite  docks 
of  Liverpool.  Tom  Allan  of  the  White 
Star  Line  could  tell  you  of  it,  were  he 
here.  Like  corks  upon  Niagara's  brink, 
like  the  old  Olivette  in  the  choppy  seas 
of  the  straits  of  Florida,  like  drunken 
dancers  on  a  swinging  floor,  all  sorts 
of  craft  of  high  and  low  degree  were 
pitching,  struggling,  rising,  falling, 
floundering,  whirling,  diving  in  one 
mad  billowy  salt-spray  minuet.  Night 
was  coming  on  as  we  boarded  the 
lighter  that  was  to  fight  her  way  to  the 
Cymric's  side.  A  half  hour  of  life,  real 
life,  ensued.  Danger  obviously  lurked 
for  the  unwary  passenger  or  sailor  on 
that  rolling  flood,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  it  all  that  stirred  the  blood 
and  steadied  the  nerves  of  men  of 
[164] 


Eight  Bells 


Anglo-Saxon  birth.  And  presently  the 
great  liner  was  discovered  through  the 
mists  and  spume  lying  in  mid-channel 
motionless!  Not  a  tremor  shook  that 
huge  wall  as  the  tender  tossed  and 
staggered  at  respectful  distance  to 
avoid  a  crash.  Big  hawsers  thrown  and 
turned  were  quickly  taut,  and  as  quick- 
ly torn  away.  "On  with  the  dance," 
the  sea  nymphs  sang,  and  four  hun- 
dred tugs  and  smacks  and  coastwise 
ships  obeyed.  Alone,  amidst  the  roar 
of  wind  and  wave,  the  Cymric  rode  at 
peace.  Once  on  her  solid  decks  we 
knew  the  meaning  of  steadfastness  and 
calm  in  troubled  waters. 

No!  of  course  all  can't  be  Cymrics. 
There  are  waters  that  giant  liners  may 
not  safely  navigate.  But  I  have  known 
some  human  Cymrics.  A  few  only. 
One  or  two  maybe.  And  to  them  I 
would  trust  my  all;  and  by  them  I 
would  swear  in  any  sea.  Even  in  mid- 
Atlantic  with  fire  smouldering  in  the 
cargo  in  the  great  ship's  hold,  my  faith 
[165] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


in  her  was  unimpaired,  and,  sure 
enough,  at  the  appointed  hour  Nan- 
tucket  shoals  were  safely  passed. 

That  one  sharp  stroke  at  this  time 
o' night  means  12:30,  but  I  must 
finish  this  cigar.  We  once  spent  a 
half-hour  in  a  small  boat  off  Gibraltar, 
looking  for  another  liner  in  a  real 
honest-to-goodness  fog.  The  sea  was 
calm  enough  that  afternoon,  but  the 
oarsmen  certainly  did  look  like  typical 
throat-slitting  pirates  of  the  erstwhile 
famous  Barbary  Coast  variety,  and 
Billy  knew  at  once  that  we  were  to  be 
robbed  and  murdered  out  there  all 
alone  with  those  two  swarthy  brutes, 
and  our  bodies  duly  pickled  in  good 
Mediterranean  brine.  After  paddling 
aimlessly  around  for  what  seemed  an 
hour  the  deep  call  of  the  steamer  was 
finally  heard  through  the  vapory  banks, 
and  the  moustachioed  boatmen  had  so 
little  conception  of  their  own  real  char- 
acter— as  drawn  by  one  of  their  pas- 
sengers— as  to  soon  swing  up  alongside 
[166] 


Eight  Bells 


a  ship  just  weighing  anchor  for  the  Bay 
of  Naples;  and  at  break  of  day  the  sun 
rose  gloriously  behind  Vesuvius. 

I  don't  see  why  Bulwer-Lytton  and 
a  thousand  other  gifted  travelers 
haven't  done  fuller  justice  to  the 
Neapolitan  coast.  Marion  Crawford 
lived  long  enough  in  Italy  to  have 
written  even  better  than  he  did.  And 
artists  in  droves  have  sketched  all  the 
way  down  from  Sorrento  to  the  Saler- 
nian  Gulf,  but  quite  in  vain.  There 
are  some  things  I  suppose  that  can 
only  be  seen  and  felt  —  not  com- 
municated. Doubtless  there  are  men 
who  would  prefer  a  seat  in  Congress 
or  the  Cabinet  to  one  at  the  Capuchini, 
but  they  could  do  more  good  to  their 
souls,  if  not  to  their  country,  by  serving 
a  term  on  Amalfi's  heights.  If  you 
would  know  the  poverty  of  all  the  dia- 
monds and  the  sapphires  in  this  world 
go  study  that  shimmering  sea  from 
the  ancient  monastery's  walls. 

Out  there  in  front  of  our  window  in 
[167] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  blackness  where  the  two  main 
driveways  meet,  electric  lamps  are 
showing  bright  red  danger  globes, 
contrasting  sharply  with  the  soft  white 
glowing  lines  that  mark  the  winding  of 
the  boulevards  amongst  the  trees. 
Two  bells  have  just  struck,  and  I  can 
plainly  hear  the  pounding  of  heavy 
waves,  spouting  like  geysers  as  the  sea 
wall's  line  is  reached.  We  are  off  the 
Irish  coast!  About  midnight  a  Cun- 
arder,  inward  bound,  had  discharged 
her  mails,  and  proceeded  on  her  way. 
If  you  have  not  steamed  up  this  coast 
on  a  moonless  night,  and  have  not 
seen  the  spectacular  flashing  of  vari- 
colored lights  as  headland  after  head- 
land, one  after  another,  is  reached 
hour  after  hour,  you  have  missed  some- 
thing worth  sitting  up  on  deck  to  see. 
You  can  sleep  when  you  go  ashore  next 
day.  And  meantime  as  the  passing  pan- 
orama slowly  dissolves  itself  into  the 
mist  you  will  translate  "The  Coastwise 
Lights  of  England"  understandingly. 
[168] 


Eight  Bells 


Was  it  Emerson  who  wrote  of  dis- 
liking the  sea,  because  it  seemed  to 
him  emblematic  only  of  death?  I  love 
it;  and  see  in  its  depths,  and  hear  in 
its  voices,  life  everlasting  and  infinity. 
I  like  everything  about  it,  from  the 
porpoises  that  play  about  the  plough- 
ing* steamer's  bow  to  the  pelicans  that 
wing  their  unmolested  way  around 
Useppa's  Isle. 

There  is  a  peculiar  fascination  about 
any  old  port  that  serves  as  a  base  for 
a  fishing  fleet.  The  stories  that  could 
be  told  by  the  docks  of  Gloucester 
were  certainly  not  exhausted  in  "Cap- 
tains Courageous."  And  one  can  con- 
ceive of  nothing  more  impressive  than 
that  annual  mid-summer  ceremony 
there  in  memory  of  the  many  who 
have  sailed  away  for  "the  banks" 
from  the  quaint  old  town  never  to  re- 
turn. Flowers  strewn  upon  the  ebbing 
tide  bear  sea-ward  the  message  which, 
let  us  hope,  is  somewhere  received  and 
understood.  The  bell  that  warns  of 
[169] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  still  tolls 
when  the  fogs  come  in.  And  far 
to  the  South  the  keeper  of  Minot's 
Ledge  answers  the  warning  signals  of 
Thatcher's  Island  and  Cape  Anne 
as  darkness  settles  down  upon  a 
dangerous  coast.  And  through  all  the 
generations  old  Mother  Anne,  stead- 
fast and  immutable  as  the  rock  be- 
neath, mocks  the  Atlantic  surge,  and 
marks  the  coming  and  the  going  of 
the  Gloucester  fisher-folk.  One  does 
not  need  to  possess  any  great  divining 
power  to  catch  her  rugged  profile  as 
she  lies  there  in  the  jagged  rocks. 
Nearby  is  "Finisterre."  There  may  be 
lovelier  spots  somewhere  along  this 
coast.  There  are  charming  country 
homes  far  back  from  the  sea  I  know — 
inland — where  hills  and  vales  and 
streams  and  forest  beauty  all  invite; 
but  at  Land's  End  the  ocean  adds  to 
all  of  these  its  own  inimitable  wonders, 
new  each  day.  Here,  where  the  flowers 
and  seaweed  meet,  a  hammock  is 
[170] 


Eight  Bells 


swaying  in  the  August  breeze.  It  will 
make  you  both  happy  and  hungry. 
I  know  because  I  have  tried  it,  and 
while  dozing  there  until  George  an- 
nounces dinner  I  have  dreamed. 

A  sheltered  sunken  garden  by  the  sea 
Where  Flora  and  the  sun-god  met  one  day 
To  deck  stone  walls  and  granite  gray 
With  roses  rare  and  columbine; 
A  scene  as  fair  as  Iris-tinted  morn. 
Pan  plays  his  pipes  'midst  leafy  bowers 
Throughout  long  dreamy  summer  hours, 
And  ever,  from  remotest  ocean  caves, 
Old  Triton  leaps  and  hoarsely  winds  his  far- 
resounding  horn. 

And  here  within  this  charmed  seclusion  deep 

Sacred  to  all  the  household  gods  who  keep 

Their  steadfast  watch  by  night,  by  day, 

O'er  happiness  and  love  and  sweet  content, 

A  gentle  spirit  dwells! 

And  if  you  seek  and  find  the  path 

That  leads  you  rightly  to  her  shrine 

You'll  sense  the  fragrance  of  the  Lotus-flower 

That  blossoms  there, — 

And  if  your  luck's  as  good  as  mine, 

And  garden  gods  don't  frown, 

You  may  be  asked  to  stop  and  dine. 


XII 

Speaking  of  Rocks 

IN  hoeing  you  sometimes  strike  a 
stone.  I  always  went  after  these. 
Firstly,  to  get  them  out  of  the  way  of 
the  rootlets  of  the  growing  plants,  and 
secondly  to  examine  the  rock  itself, 
always  hoping  to  find  something  inter- 
esting; something  that  looked  as  if  it 
might  have  had  a  history.  I  have 
always  been  attracted  by  natural  ob- 
jects that  I  thought  might  tell  great 
tales  had  they  the  power  of  speech. 
But  in  the  gardens  of  my  youth  I  do 
not  remember  ever  finding  more  than 
one  arrowhead,  and  no  rocks  of  special 
interest  except  a  few  that  showed 
curious  forms  that  I  now  know  were 
due  to  the  grinding  power  of  glaciers, 
[173] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Out  there  in  the  cabinet,  in  the  gal- 
lery, where  you  may  see  a  quaint  mix- 
ture of  odds  and  ends  from  the  four- 
winds,  you  may  find  two  discolored 
pieces  of  marble  that  a  tourist  once 
brought  from  Rome.  The  full  extent 
of  the  crimes  that  have  been  com- 
mitted by  Cook's  crowds  will  prob- 
ably never  be  fully  known.  I  was  told 
one  day  in  Concord  that  if  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson's  house  had  not  been 
closed  to  strangers  a  few  years  ago 
there  would  by  this  time  be  nothing 
whatever  left  of  either  furnishings  or 
foundations  save  memories.  But  get- 
ting back  to  lithological  lore,  I  am  now 
the  custodian  of  a  bit  of  the  mosaic 
floor  that  was  trod,  once  on  a  time,  by 
the  gay  patrician  guests  of  Caesar 
Augustus,  in  an  age  when  old  Faler- 
nian,  from  all  accounts,  flowed  quite 
as  freely  as  the  waters  of  the  Tiber. 
At  any  rate,  this  bit  of  pavement  was 
really  picked  up  in  the  ruins  of  the 
emperor's  palace,  still  visited  annually 
[i74l 


Speaking  of  Rocks 


by  those  who  love  the  land  of  the  ilex 
and  the  vine.  Some  of  the  scenes  that 
this  particular  stone  has  looked  upon 
if  pictured  here  might  possibly  bar 
this  little  book  from  modern  mails. 
The  other  is  clearly  a  fragment  of  a 
cornice,  and  we  know  for  a  fact  that 
it  certainly  looked  down  upon  still 
earlier  generations;  because  I  saw  it 
rescued  from  dirt  and  debris  piled  up 
by  laborers  excavating  with  pick  and 
shovel,  under  the  direction  of  learned 
antiquarians,  in  the  lowest  levels 
reached  in  recent  times  in  the  explora- 
tion of  the  Roman  Forum.  It  was 
probably  never  seen  therefore  by  either 
Cato  or  Cataline.  It  is  beautifully 
carved,  carrying  a  delicately  chiseled 
Grecian  design  that  may  be  seen  today 
on  any  structure  built  on  strictly  classic 
lines.  And  if  you  have  just  a  little  of 
the  gift  of  "seeing  things,"  and  will 
place  it  by  your  side  as  you  read 
your  Virgil,  you  will  easily  grasp 
the  fact  that  this  marble  fragment 
[i75l 


In  Winter  Quarters 


is  endowed  with  truly  magic  power. 
We  think  we  are  far  advanced  in  all 
that  pertains  to  our  physical  and 
spiritual  well  being,  as  compared  with 
the  ancients,  but  I  see  no  evidence  to 
support  any  such  contention.  It's  a 
long  trail  from  Babylon  to  Berlin,  but 
the  hanging  gardens  and  fountains, 
the  roses  of  Sharon  and  myrtles  that 
grew  about  the  walls  of  the  one,  cer- 
tainly made  it  quite  as  desirable  a  place 
of  residence,  even  under  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, as  was  the  German  capital 
under  William  Hohenzollern.  We  still 
turn  to  the  Greece  that  was  for  our 
highest  inspirations  in  fine  art,  and  to 
pre-historic  Egypt  in  the  hope  of 
solving  secrets  that  died  with  the 
Pharaohs.  Rome  borrowed  from  them 
both,  and  we  in  turn  gaze  with  amaze- 
ment upon  the  luxuries  revealed  by  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla,  and  delight  to  copy 
mural  decorations  preserved  for  us 
by  the  ashes  of  centuries  in  exquisite 
Pompeian  interiors.  The  walls  of  Jeri- 
[176] 


Speaking  of  Rocks 


cho  have  fallen,  but  they  built  sewers 
and  aqueducts  better  in  the  days  of 
Claudius  Maximus  than  we  do  under 
Gompers.  No,  they  had  no  ocean 
cables  nor  any  form  of  fast  transporta- 
tion by  land,  sea  or  air.  They  thought 
it  enough  to  concentrate  their  energies 
upon  the  highest  possible  development 
of  their  own  home-lands,  and  not  dis- 
sipate energy  as  we  do  in  scattering  our 
interests  and  activities  all  over  the 
habitable  globe.  Greece  was  all  the 
world  to  the  Greeks,  and  Rome  and 
Carthage  only  fell  after  vainly  attempt- 
ing to  extend  themselves  too  far.  At 
least  that  is  what  I  am  told  by  my 
marble  fragments  every  time  I  handle 
them. 

The  earth  is  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a  great  big  rock  surfaced  with  a 
little  of  its  own  disintegrated  sub- 
stance and  decayed  animal  and  vege- 
table matter,  and  populated  now,  as 
aeons  ago,  by  certain  self-satisfied  in- 
sects, reptiles,  birds,  "bipeds  without 
[i77] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


feathers"  and  quadrupeds,  differing  in 
type  only,  but  not  in  habits,  from  the 
myriapods,  trilobites,  spoon-billed 
dinosaurs,  and  cave  men  of  Cre- 
tacean,  Eocenic  or  other  early  geo- 
logic ages.  And  Mars  or  some  other 
distant  belligerent  is  still  throwing 
rocks  our  way.  One  of  these,  hurled 
by  some  solar  Hercules  at  the  state 
of  Iowa  many  years  ago,  burned  its 
flaming  path  overhead  one  winter 
night  still  well  remembered.  After- 
wards I  once  watched  the  proving  of 
a  giant  gun  at  Indian  Head  on  the 
Potomac,  and  the  roar  of  the  great 
shells,  as  they  tore  their  way  through 
the  air  towards  a  distant  bend  in  the 
river — like  the  muffled  rumble  of  a 
heavy  freight  train  on  a  long  piece  of 
trestle  work — was  not  nearly  so  loud 
as  the  disturbance  made  by  this  mon- 
ster meteor  in  its  flight  through  our 
aero-sphere.  This  particular  missile 
fired  from  some  stellar  Big  Bertha, 
after  frightening  one-half  the  people 
[178] 


Speaking  of  Rocks 


of  the  state,  buried  itself  in  the  earth, 
and  was  soon  afterwards  acquired  by 
the  State  University. 

I  don't  like  to  follow  either  geology 
or  astronomy  too  far.  They  both  lead 
you  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice  so  sheer 
and  so  enveloped  in  the  clouds  of 
mystery  that  you  dare  not  look  into 
the  unfathomed  depths  without  grow- 
ing groggy.  I  prefer  to  take  the  sea 
as  I  see  it  at  Sorrento,  the  cedar  as  it 
grows  on  the  cliffs  of  Monterey,  the 
pine  tree  as  it  stands  erect  on  lofty 
Appalachian  heights,  the  rose  as  it 
blooms  in  Baltimore,  the  corn  as  it 
wears  its  silk  and  tassels  on  the  prairies 
of  Illinois,  the  cattle  as  they  graze  on 
old  Kentucky's  hills,  the  cricket  as  it 
chirps  now  on  my  hearth  at  Dumbie- 
dykes,  the  men  and  women  who  may 
be  our  guests  when  lamps  are  lighted 
right  here  in  Chicago  in  this  year  of 
our  Lord  1920,  the  stars  as  they  rise 
and  shine  in  obedience  to  some  law  I 
know  not  of,  and  cannot  understand — 
[i79l 


In  Winter  Quarters 


all  just  as  they  are,  without  asking 
"whence?"  Or  "whither?" 

I  can  interest  myself  more  or  less  in 
stratified  rocks.  They  do  not  suggest 
hell  fires  and  brimstone,  as  do  their 
igneous  brethren.  In  fact,  I  cannot 
look  at  those  hardened  laval  products 
of  unthinkable  heat,  thrown  carelessly 
about  as  they  have  been  by  some  un- 
thinkable power,  without  shuddering 
at  the  terrors  they  inspire.  I  can 
stand  for  studying  coquina  or  any 
other  cemented  sediment  that  reveals 
the  fauna  or  the  flora  of  a  bygone  age, 
but  basalt  and  obsidian  speak  of 
dynamite. 

Fossiliferous  limestones  are  won- 
derful, if  you  care  anything  about 
your  ancestry.  Most  of  us  here  in 
America  know  our  mother's  maiden 
name,  and  some  of  us  could  tell  you 
the  given  name  of  the  paternal  grand- 
father. A  few  may  know  where  their 
great  grandparents  lived,  or  are  said 
to  have  come  from.  A  select  few  have 
[180] 


Speaking  of  Rocks 


had  their  pedigrees  traced  as  far  as 
possible.  Most  of  these  researches 
have  been  conducted  by  females  wish- 
ing admission  to  the  D.  A.  R.  That  is 
perhaps  one  good  thing  these  doughty 
Daughters  have  done  for  us.  But  for 
that  many  a  potential  suffragette  would 
never  have  known  for  sure  whether  she 
had  a  great-great-grand-parent  or  not. 
Just  why  this  study  of  genealogy  should 
develop  among  females  such  a  bellicose 
disposition  is,  however,  not  so  appar- 
ent. If  you  have  ever  seen  the  Daugh- 
ter delegates  in  action  in  the  conven- 
tion staged  annually  at  the  National 
Capital  you  would  understand  this 
reference. 

Of  course  along  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board you  hear  always  of  "the  old  fam- 
ilies," as  if  your  family  is  or  could  be 
by  any  possibility  any  "older"  than 
mine  or  that  of  the  bumble  bee  sipping 
sweets  from  the  royal-purple  monk's 
hood  blooming  on  the  garden  wall. 
The  only  difference  is  that  some  have 
[181] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


kept  track  of  their  ancestry,  and  many 
have  not  cared  enough  about  the  mat- 
ter to  even  inquire  as  to  who  was 
really  responsible.  No  family  is  of 
course  any  better  than  it  is.  It  is  not 
a  question  of  the  names  of  the  an- 
cestors, but  of  their  personality,  and 
unfortunately  genealogy  commonly 
fails  to  supply  sufficient  information 
as  to  the  amount  and  quality  of  gray 
matter  or  refinement,  or  mental  and 
physical  endowment  generally  to  ren- 
der it  of  any  value  to  the  student  of 
scientific  breeding  or  heredity. 

We  keep  tab  on  our  cows  with  much 
more  intelligence.  If  the  pedigree 
registry  tells  you  exactly  how  much 
milk  each  female  ancestress  has  yielded 
for  generations  past,  you  have  a  record 
of  performance  you  can  build  upon 
with  confidence.  And  if  it  appears 
from  the  books  that  the  paternal  an- 
cestors have  been  distinguished  win- 
ners at  the  shows,  there  is  a  useful 
chart  to  shape  one's  course  by.  In 
[182] 


Speaking  of  Rocks 


stock  breeding  we  know  fairly  well 
"where  we  are  at"  in  this  reproduc- 
tion work,  but  with  humans  the  eu- 
genic proposition  languishes.  Hence 
we  need  expect  no  race  of  poets  nor 
philosophers;  not  even  a  breed  of 
pugilists  with  protruding  chins.  Just 
a  grand  pot-pourri  of  anything  and 
everything  that  has  gone  before  in  one 
mad  mixture  blended  "for  better  or 
for  worse ! " 

Now,  if  we  only  had  some  way  of 
handing  ourselves  down  in  good  gray 
limestone  garb  for  the  information  of 
future  generations,  men  might  make 
better  progress  in  their  own  develop- 
ment. We  know  exactly  how  a  De- 
vonian Hipparionyx  proximus  looked, 
but  you  couldn't  reconstruct  accurate- 
ly so  comparatively  recent  a  human 
product  as  say  Alexander  the  Great 
to  save  your  life;  saying  nothing  about 
your  own  great-uncle  and  his  wife. 

After  all,  what  does  it  matter?  It 
makes  little  difference  to  me  now  or 
[183] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


hereafter,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  whether 
old  Henry  weighed  180  pounds  or  120; 
whether  he  was  tall  or  short;  whether 
dear  old  Patsy  was  blonde  or  brunette, 
slight  or  stout,  or  whether  they  were 
married  on  the  Rappahannock  or  in 
the  Shenandoah  Valley.  The  sun  will 
rise  just  the  same  tomorrow  morning. 
No  information  as  to  how  Adam  and 
Eve  looked  is  now  obtainable.  All  we 
know  is  a  little  something  about  their 
dress,  their  diet  and  their  immediate 
descendants,  and  what  we  know  of 
some  of  the  latter,  such  as  Cain,  Judas 
Iscariot,  Nero  and  Trotsky,  tends 
somewhat  to  frost  any  budding  pride 
of  human  ancestry. 


[184] 


XIII 

One  Way  Out 

EVEN  hoes  are  entitled  to  an  occa- 
sional rest.  Anyone  whose  fingers 
are  blistered  as  a  result  of  gripping  the 
handle  too  tightly  and  too  continuously 
will  approve  that  sentiment.  There 
are  of  course  some  people  who  are  in 
no  danger  of  doing  themselves  bodily 
injury  through  overwork.  Such  folk 
commonly  make  excellent  fishermen. 
Successful  angling  is  a  pursuit  calling 
for  unlimited  patience  and  congenital 
antipathy  to  hoes.  It  is  not  to  this 
class  therefore  that  this  warning  is 
specially  addressed. 

We  all  know  persons   who  are  by 
nature  either  ambitious  to  rise  to  the 
limit  of  their  capacity  in  the  world  for 
[185] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


personal  reasons,  or  in  order  that  they 
may  become  generous  providers  for 
others.  Many  of  these  unfortunately 
act  upon  the  principle  that  all  time 
spent  in  play  is  wasted,  insisting,  in 
the  face  of  the  universal  experience,  in 
riding  their  respective  hobbies  straight 
into  hospitals.  I  have  personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  case  of  one,  who  after 
hoeing  a  row  some  thirty  years  long, 
with  infrequent  stops,  finally  found 
himself  one  day  with  hypodermic 
needles  loaded  with  strychnine  in  his 
arms,  and  a  trained  nurse  trailing  his 
dragging  steps.  Needless  to  add,  his 
hoe  then  had  one  long  extended  rest. 
It  is  again  in  commission,  nominally 
at  least,  but  is  not  now  worked  over- 
time. 

That  unrivaled  painter,  piper  and 
poet  of  the  wayside,  woods  and  skies, 
king  of  all  the  Romanys  living  or 
dead,  to  whom  I  have  already  paid  my 
homage,  aided  and  abetted  more  or 
less  by  such  people  as  Hesiod  and 
[186] 


One  Way  Out 


Horace,  Columella  and  Cato,  Burns 
and  Burroughs,  and  various  other  es- 
teemed brethren  of  the  Oxygen  Club, 
had  often  urged  this  man  with  the  hoe 
to  hang  it  up  in  the  tool-house  once  in 
a  while,  and  take  to  the  woods,  and  he 
finally  did;  but  so  firmly  fixed  had  the 
hoeing  habit  become  that  no  sooner 
had  he  builded  his  little  shack  among 
the  oaks  than  he  began  looking  around 
for  something  he  could  cultivate.  When 
the  fever  for  work  was  upon  him  he  had 
only  to  adapt  Aladdin's  little  trick  to 
his  own  particular  needs;  just  rub  the 
handle  of  the  hoe  with  a  forefinger 
and  thumb  bearing  the  calloused  scars 
of  service,  and  a  field  for  its  use  would 
instantly  reveal  itself.  Then  down  in 
a  corner  he  would  go,  and  you  would 
likely  see  or  hear  little  of  him  for  the 
rest  of  that  day  or  week. 

Mrs.   Burns   has   recorded   the  fact 
that  Robert  was  not  fit  to  live  with  dur- 
ing periods  when  he  was  actively  en- 
gaged in  composition.    At  such  times 
[187] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


he  was  nervous,  preoccupied,  irritable 
and  absolutely  impossible,  from  the 
standpoint  of  conventional  society. 
Had  he  played  bridge,  and  danced  well 
and  often,  I  suppose  she  would  have 
called  him  a  dear,  but  had  he  done  so 
during  the  summer  that  proved  to  be 
big  with  fate  for  the  literary  world  it 
would  not  have  been  so  well  for  Scot- 
land. In  fact,  in  that  event  the  great- 
est poem  of  its  type  in  any  tongue, 
"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  would 
never  have  been  delivered.  The  poet 
was  only  seeing  things  as  others  also 
saw  them,  but  he  differed  from  all  the 
rest  in  that  he  put  upon  himself,  for 
the  everlasting  benefit  of  his  fellow- 
men,  the  heavy  burden  of  painting 
vividly  and  at  great  personal  sacrifice 
of  himself  the  immortal  pictures  that 
were  so  clear  to  him  in  the  field  and 
firelight!  And  while  thus  engaged  he 
was  of  course  a  moody  recluse!  Such 
is  the  world's  impatience,  even  with 
those  who  may  be  serving  it  best.  I 
[188] 


One  Way  Out 


suppose  Beau  Brummels  serve  some 
useful  purpose.  Maybe  lap  dogs  do 
also.  I  never  quite  got  the  great  idea 
myself,  but  let  us  "judge  not."  There 
can  be  absolutely  no  disputing  over 
matters  involving  either  taste  or  re- 
ligion. We  all  like  the  bright  lights 
sometimes,  but  one  can  find  better 
companions  occasionally  in  the  sand 
dunes.  Luckily  for  Scotland  and  the 
human  race,  Robert  Burns  had  a 
greater  fondness  for  a  furrow  in  the 
field,  and  for  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 
than  for  Leicester  Square.  Feast  and 
the  world  feasts  with  you.  Think  and 
you  think  alone. 

Scotland  has  perhaps  given  the  world 
more  in  proportion  to  its  area,  and  in 
proportion  to  its  habitable  acreage, 
than  any  other  country.  We  can  for- 
give oatmeal,  Carlyle  and  Rob  Roy 
Macgregor  in  the  light  of  Burns  and 
Barclay  of  Ury,  Scott  and  Amos 
Cruickshank,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
and  William  McCombie.  The  Scotch 
[189] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


are  not  only  the  best  farmers  in  the 
world,  but  the  best  golfers.  In  fact, 
they  claim  to  have  originated  golf,  as 
well  as  Galloways.  And  speaking  of 
hanging  up  the  hoe  now  and  then,  and 
of  the  Scots — and  incidentally  getting 
back  to  our  muttons — in  the  interest 
of  a  depleted  vitality,  I  have  now  for 
some  few  years  past  at  intervals  laid 
aside  the  governor's  implement  of  soil 
culture,  and  its  hexagonal  No.  2  suc- 
cessor— bearing  Eberhard  Faber's 
brand — long  enough  to  try  to  work 
my  passage,  amidst  many  difficulties, 
and  with  a  different  class  of  instru- 
ments, around  a  quarter-section  of  roll- 
ing grassland  lying  just  in  front  of 
Dumbiedykes. 

Long  practice  and  a  stroke  easily 
acquired  when  one  starts  early  enough 
in  life,  and  follows  the  game  up  con- 
tinuously for  a  number  of  years,  had 
once  made  a  country-bred  lad  fairly 
expert  in  destroying  rag-weeds  and 
cockleburs  with  one  clean-cut  swing  of 
[190] 


One  Way  Out 


a  keen-edged  scythe.  In  fact,  he  often 
hears  yet,  when  pushing  a  pencil  in  the 
town  jail  called  his  office,  the  music 
of  the  whetstone  flying  swiftly  back 
and  forth  along  the  curving  blade,  and 
sees  the  golden  rod,  sweet  clover  and 
big  broad  burdocks  going  down  before 
a  rhythmic  swaying  under  August 
suns.  Unfortunately,  however,  this 
proficiency  in  that  ancient  and  honor- 
able game  did  not  seem  to  help  much 
when,  in  the  first  dash  for  the  open 
air,  blue  sky  and  the  companionship 
of  meadow  larks  and  other  interesting 
people  to  be  met  with  around  good  golf 
links,  he  resolved  to  resume  partial 
touch  with  the  soil  of  which  he  was  so 
fond — and  very  little  of  which  he 
owned — by  buying  a  driver,  brassey, 
cleek,  mid-iron,  mashie,  putter,  bag 
and  balls,  and  a  suit  of  "knickers;" 
the  customary  equipment,  in  other 
words,  of  those  who  take  up  as  a  means 
of  relaxation  the  time-honored  Scottish 
sport. 

[191] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


It  was  a  Scotchman,  in  fact,  who  in- 
veigled me  into  this — one  John  Clay. 
Some  of  you  ranchmen  and  Stock 
Yard  people  and  bankers  and  red  foxes 
will  perhaps  have  heard  of  him  before, 
for  he  has  been  a  very  familiar  figure, 
for  lo!  these  many  years,  wherever 
round-ups,  livestock  conventions  and 
packing-houses  abound  in  this  coun- 
try. Also  wherever  border  sportsmen 
meet  along  the  Teviot  or  the  Tweed 
to  give  poor  Reynard  chase.  John 
could  beat  almost  anyone  when  it  was 
a  little  matter  of  shrewd  use  of  grass  on 
the  Belle  Fourche  range.  And  Tom 
Wilson  or  Edward  Swift  or  Mr.  Forgan 
will  tell  you  candidly  he  is  "canny" 
in  the  realm  of  high  finance.  More- 
over, any  fox-hunter  between  the 
Cheviots  and  the  Hills  of  Lammermoor 
will  have  tall  stories  of  how  he  used 
to  ride  to  hounds,  rain  or  shine,  from 
Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night. 

But  he  can't  play  good  golf.  I  know 
he  can't  play  good  golf  because  I  have 
[192] 


One  Way  Out 


often  played  with  him  myself,  and 
once  in  a  long  time  can  bring  him  in 
one  "down,"  and  anybody  that  I  can 
finish  "up"  on  at  a  game  of  golf  is 
no  real  golfer.  Anyhow  Clay  started 
me.  In  fact,  it  may  as  well  be  recorded 
here  as  anywhere  else  that  he  is  really 
the  person  who  urged  the  building  of 
the  little  cottage  in  the  country  that 
has  now  sheltered  me  for  some  seven- 
teen consecutive  summers  under  the 
name  his  sister  gave  it. 

Now  golf  looks  easy.  It  is  for  men 
who  have  a  good  burr  under  their 
tongue,  and  were  caught  before  full 
maturity;  but  the  average  American 
business  man  who  tackles  it  figures 
much  more  prominently  in  the  list  of 
those  who  contribute  to  the  upkeep  of 
the  greens  and  lockers  than  he  does  in 
the  roster  of  first-flighters  in  tourna- 
ments where  one  is  expected  to  hit  the 
ball.  As  a  contributing  member  of  a 
country  club  he  is  a  pronounced  suc- 
cess. As  a  golfer  he  ruins  more  turf 
[i93] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


on  the  tees  and  through  the  fairways 
every  Saturday  during  the  summer 
months  than  a  greenskeeper  can  renew 
in  a  month  of  painstaking  replace- 
ment. Just  the  same  he  gets  his 
money's  worth  with  the  biggest  inter- 
est rate  upon  it  of  any  investment  he 
ever  makes. 

You  see  it  is  like  this:  You  take  a 
wooden  club  modeled  on  the  lines  of 
the  old-fashioned  "shinny"  stick,  a 
small  white  ball  that  is  more  sensitive 
than  a  drop  of  quick-silver  on  a  hard- 
wood floor,  and  you  are  to  drive  it  two 
or  three  hundred  yards  straight  down 
the  line  of  play  toward  a  goal  objec- 
tive— a  tiny  cup  imbedded  somewhere 
in  supposedly  velvety  grass  upon  a 
putting  green — but  you  probably  will 
not.  Rather  you  will  look  up  too  quick- 
ly and  "top"  or  "slice"  or  "pull"  the 
ball  into  a  sand-trap,  a  stream  of  water, 
tall  weeds  or  clover,  brush  or  gravel 
pit,  conveniently  placed  to  catch 
dubbed  shots.  Then  after  looking  for 
[i94l 


One  Way  Out 


your  ball  a  half-hour  or  so  you  may 
find  it;  and  if  you  be  stout  of  arm  and 
find  a  niblick  in  your  bag  you  may, 
if  you  have  good  luck,  be  able  to  chop 
the  wayward  pill  back  onto  the  lot 
where  it  belongs.  You  will  then  have 
to  take  another  type  of  iron — and 
with  devilish  ingenuity  the  Scotch 
have  originated  more  breeds  of  these 
than  they  have  of  sheep  and  cattle — 
and  try  to  make  progress  towards  the 
flag  that  marks  the  hole  for  which  you 
are  supposed  to  be  headed.  By  and 
by  you  will  reach  the  "green."  But 
the  cup  into  which  your  ball  has  now  to 
be  "holed"  is  not  half  big  enough.  It 
should  of  course  approximate  the  size 
of  a  full-grown  wash-tub,  but  it  doesn't. 
They  say  the  cup  is  four  inches  wide.  I 
don't  believe  it! 

Now  if  you  manage  to  get  your  own 
ball  safely  stowed  away  at  last,  in  say 
seven  strokes,  counting  from  your  first 
endeavor  on  the  teeing  ground,  and 
Clay  has  taken  eight,  you  have  won 
[i9Sl 


In  Winter  Quarters 


that  hole  from  him.  See?  And  so  on 
for  the  whole  eighteen.  The  only 
trouble  with  John  is  that  they  prob- 
ably started  him  plowing  instead  of 
golfing  when  a  wee  braw  lad  at  Wed- 
derlie. 

Meantime,  however,  you  will  have 
tramped  six  miles,  with  your  feet  on 
good  old  Mother  Earth.  The  blue  jays 
and  the  bob-o-links  have  been  making 
sport  of  you  all  the  while.  Maybe 
your  mind  was  on  them  part  of  the 
time  instead  of  upon  your  game.  May- 
be the  oat  harvest  or  the  waving  corn- 
fields over  there  beyond  the  hedge 
have  meant  as  much  to  you  as  the 
winning  of  a  match.  Maybe  the  blue- 
grass  and  the  grove,  or  that  distant 
line  of  wooded  hills,  have  claimed  some 
share  of  your  attention.  Maybe  the 
doffing  of  starched  linen  has  made  you 
altogether  comfortable  for  the  time 
being.  Maybe  all  of  a  sudden  you  have 
realized  that  for  three  hours  you  have 
not  thought  of  LaSalle  Street  or  the 
[196] 


One  Way  Out 


bank  balance.  And  when  you've  done, 
and  had  your  shower,  you  may  find 
that  somehow  some  of  the  cobwebs 
that  were  in  your  brain  when  you  left 
town  have  been  lost  somewhere  out 
there  on  the  breezy  links.  And  if  you 
can't  afford  a  real  country  place  of 
your  own  you  may  say,  with  some  of 
the  rest  of  us,  that  golf  after  all  is  just 
another  name  for  good  medicine — not 
merely  a  trifling  pastime  for  "the  idle 
rich."  Maybe  it  is  a  real  blessing  to  the 
man  of  moderate  means  who  has  to 
work  with  his  head  inside  brick  walls, 
and  has  discovered  in  this  good  old 
outdoor  sport  one  route  by  which  he 
can  travel  back  for  a  few  brief  hours  at 
least  to  the  soil  from  whence  he,  like 
all  the  other  bugs,  originally  sprang. 


[i97] 


T 


XIV 

As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

HIS  Christmas  neither  toys  nor 
sleds  named  "  Snow  Bird  "  came 
my  way,  but  from  somewhere  a  copy 
of  a  book  you  may  see  there  next  to 
"Walden"  and  "Steep  Trails."  It  is 
"The  Spell  of  the  Yukon"  by  Robert 
W.  Service.  It  is  Kiplingesque,  in- 
tensely human,  and  there  are  times 
when  its  pulsing  verse  may  suit  one's 
mood  better  than  any  of  its  shelf- 
mates. 

"I  wanted  the  gold  and  I  sought  it; 
I  scrabbled  and  mucked  like  a  slave. 
Was  it  famine  or  scurvy — I  fought  it; 
I  hurled  my  youth  into  a  grave. 
I  wanted  the  gold  and  I  got  it; 
Came  out  with  a  fortune  last  fall; 
Yet  somehow  life's  not  what  I  thought  it, 
And  somehow  the  gold  isn't  all." 

[199] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


Men  hunt  their  respective  will-o'- 
the-wisps  in  many  other  places  than 
along  the  sands  of  the  Yukon,  only  to 
learn  at  last  that  if  these  have  been 
pursued  at  the  price  of  the  infinitely 
greater  things  of  life,  failure  shall  be 
written  at  the  chapter's  end. 

We  probably  get  about  what  is  com- 
ing to  us  in  this  world,  and  with  most 
of  us  that  isn't  much  if  measured  by 
customary  standards.  The  trouble  is 
that  only  about  one  in  ten  million  has 
had  the  luck  to  be  endowed  with  the 
ability  to  make  a  big  worldly  mark  for 
himself.  Most  of  us  may  be  fairly 
represented  by  small  dots  scattered 
along  on  either  side  of  a  horizontal  line 
that  we  may  call  the  dead  level  of 
mediocrity.  These  pin-heads  are  num- 
bered in  the  millions,  and  as  you  look 
above  or  below  this  median  line  you 
will  note  that  the  dots  that  represent 
the  rest  of  the  brethren  grow  fewer  and 
fewer  until,  both  at  the  top  and  at  the 
bottom,  you  will  observe  the  isolated 
[200] 


As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

points  that  stand  for  absolute  im- 
becility in  the  lower  depths  and  daz- 
zling brilliancy  in  the  upper  realms. 
All  this  you  will  find  diagramed  and 
discussed  in  Francis  Galton's  "Heredi- 
tary Genius."  That  distinguished  sa- 
vant will  tell  you  that  a  Napoleon  or  a 
Shakespeare  performs  his  apparently 
superhuman  tasks  with  just  as  little 
effort  as  you  and  I  manage  our  infinite- 
ly smaller  undertakings;  the  difference 
being  one  of  natural  capacity  is  there- 
fore fundamental. 

The  great  mind  is  created,  not  made. 
If  you  have  it,  you  have  it.  That  is  all 
there  is  to  it.  And  you  yourself  are 
entitled  to  no  credit  whatsoever  as  an 
individual  for  being  the  mere  custodian 
of  something  that  can  neither  be 
bought,  stolen  nor  acquired  by  study, 
thought  or  any  other  human  process. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  have 
not  been  born  into  that  sparsely  settled 
zone  where  the  truly  great  appear,  you 
are  not  going  to  get  very  far  in  that 
[201] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


direction,  even  if  you  hitch  your  own 
apple-cart  to  Aldebaran. 

While  this  is  undoubtedly  true  as 
respects  the  mountain  peaks  of  human 
achievement;  while  a  mind  of  excep- 
tional power  is  only  now  and  then 
given  to  some  fortunate  recipient,  the 
fact  remains  that  the  average  person 
rises  or  falls,  within  certain  limits, 
above  or  below  the  middle  line,  sub- 
stantially according  to  his  own  efforts 
and  deserts.  When  I  speak  of  brilliant 
worldly  success,  I  refer  not  at  all  to  the 
mere  ownership  of  property.  Posses- 
sion of  gold  proves  little  or  nothing,  so 
far  as  real  worth  is  concerned.  It  all 
depends  upon  how  it  was  obtained.  If 
by  inheritance,  by  common  highway 
robbery  in  some  commercial  guise,  by 
stumbling  upon  a  ledge  of  gold-bearing 
quartz,  by  beating  some  other  fellow 
out  of  a  valuable  invention;  or  by 
guessing  shrewdly  in  Wall  Street,  it 
may  bring  the  limelight  and  liveries 
that  attract  the  gaping  crowd,  but  not 
[202] 


As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

admission  into  honestly  conducted  gal- 
leries tof  fame.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
mere  fact  that  a  man  has  means  is  not 
necessarily  proof  that  he  is  a  rascal. 
There  are  instances  where  men  of 
brains,  men  of  high  ideals  and  aspira- 
tions, men  of  genius,  have  actually 
held  their  own  in  the  great  riot  of 
money-getting  and  maintained  them- 
selves in  accordance  with  the  conven- 
tional requirements  of  contemporary 
civilization.  These  are  apt  to  be  ex- 
ceptions, however. 

Assuming  that  you  are  an  average 
individual,  it  is  well  to  grasp  the  fact 
that  while  you  will  probably  never  be 
able  to  live  in  the  sun — because  those 
few  who  do  are  born  to  that  exalted 
place — you  will  very  likely  harvest  in 
the  long  run  just  about  according  as 
you  ply  your  hoe.  And  do  not  worry 
as  to  whether  you  are  born  great  or 
not.  If  you  are  you  will  soon  find 
yourself  sailing  easily  away  from  your 
fellows.  You  can't  keep  genius  down. 
[203] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


It  was  born  to  fly,  and  is  self-starting. 
But  along  this  great  crowded  highway 
of  the  average,  you  will  find  it  very 
necessary  to  hoe;  to  hoe  early  and  to 
hoe  late;  to  hoe  persistently,  and  to 
hoe  not  just  on  the  surface,  but  deep. 
There  is  too  much  competition — except 
in  the  Napoleon-Shakespeare  class — 
to  admit  of  any  other  course  if  you 
expect  to  keep  above  the  line  even  a 
few  degrees.  Loaf  too  much  and  you 
are  left.  Hang  up  your  hoe  too  fre- 
quently, and  you  will  go  without 
potatoes. 

The  great  thing  is  to  do  whatever  is 
given  you  to  do  in  the  very  best  manner 
possible.  I  don't  care  if  it  is  blacking 
some  other  fellow's  shoes.  If  you  make 
so  good  a  job  of  it  that  it  compels  the 
attention  of  the  owner,  you  can  rest 
assured  that  he  will  recognize  the  fact, 
and  argue  from  it  that  since  you  have 
done  even  so  small  a  thing  as  that  so 
well  you  are  more  than  likely  to  do 
something  more  important  better  than 
[204] 


As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

the  average,  and  your  promotion  will 
not  stop  until  you  strike  a  level  where 
you  can  no  longer  excel,  and  there  you 
find  your  probable  limit.  Nobody 
knows  just  where  that  is  to  be  found 
until  he  has  tried,  and  tried  hard.  We 
all  have  our  limitations — even  the  ten- 
millionth  man — but  it  is  up  to  each  to 
test  things  out  for  himself. 

The  idea  that  ^getting  along  in  the 
world  is  altogether  a  matter  of  "pull" 
is  of  course  a  convenient  excuse  for 
one's  own  failure  to  progress.  One  man 
may  hoe  just  as  hard  as  his  neighbor, 
and  not  get  on  nearly  so  fast  nor  har- 
vest anything  like  so  good  a  crop;  and 
he  may  be  just  as  honest,  just  as  faith- 
ful and  in  some  cases  apparently  more 
deserving  than  his  mate.  And  he  and 
his  friends  are  apt  to  talk  of  the  "luck" 
of  the  other  fellow,  and  talk  of  favorit- 
ism. Well,  it  is,  in  one  sense;  but  if  so 
it  is  probably  nothing  more  than  the 
favor  extended  to  the  one  by  the  gods 
and  denied  by  them,  for  some  inex- 
[205] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


plicable  reason,  to  the  other.  One 
hoes  true  to  the  line,  never  makes  a 
miscue,  every  stroke  counts.  He  knows 
the  soil,  and  how  to  handle  it.  He 
knows  weeds  from  the  plants  he  is 
cultivating.  He  works  with  his  head 
as  well  as  with  his  hands.  And  of 
course  he  reaps  a  bigger  crop  than  the 
fellow  who  has  not  been  given  equal 
mentality. 

Some  may  say  that  is  a  hard  pro- 
nouncement; that  it  is  condemning  off- 
hand and  in  advance  a  majority  per- 
haps of  the  human  race  to  be  in  a  way 
mere  "hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water";  that  we  are  born  into  a  servi- 
tude from  which  there  is  no  rising; 
that  such  a  doctrine  is  fatal  to  effort, 
and  dispels  ambition.  If  by  that  you 
interpret  this  as  holding  that  we  are 
all  substantially  what  we  are  born  to 
be,  and  that  we  can  only  make  minor 
changes  in  our  destinies,  I  stand  by  the 
record.  But  don't  forget  that  the 
"hewer  of  wood"  you  talk  about 
[206] 


As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

usually  has  an  infinitely  better  chance 
for  happiness  than  had  Hannibal,  and 
that  the  "drawer  of  water"  does  not  by 
any  means  necessarily  need  your  sym- 
pathies. On  the  contrary.  More  than 
half  our  troubles  grow  out  of  an  utter 
misconception  as  to  who  is  to  be  really 
pitied,  who  envied. 

If  you  want  to  hoe  for  gold  dollars 
and  nothing  else,  do  it.  I  shall  not. 
I  want  coin  enough  to  satisfy  the 
grocer,  tailor  and  landlord,  but  I  have 
not  hoed  and  will  not  hoe  only  toward 
the  mint.  I  never  was  good  at  figures, 
anyhow.  My  marks  in  arithmetic  when 
a  school  boy  were  apt  to  be  disgrace- 
ful. Fractions  and  finance  have  never 
interested  me  half  as  much  as 
finches,  and  it  takes  a  good  mathema- 
tician to  make  a  hatful  of  money;  one 
who  loves  the  inexorable  algebraic 
equation.  When  I  went  higher  up, 
however,  the  case  was  different,  for 
geometry  made  its  great  appeal  to  the 
heights  and  depths  that  deal  with 
[207] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


mountain  mysteries  and  the  journeys 
of  the  moons  of  Jupiter.  And,  if  I 
remember  correctly,  at  Cornell  I  actu- 
ally came  through  my  "spherical  trig" 
exam,  with  the  one  "cum  laude" 
mark  of  my  brief  course  of  study  at 
that  institution.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  I  had  more  real  interest  in  those 
days  in  the  Varsity  crew  and  the  boat- 
house  on  the  Inlet  than  in  most  of  my 
studies  on  the  glorious  hill  that  still 
looks  down  upon  Cayuga's  waves  of 
blue. 

I  am  surely  kin  to  the  African  in  one 
respect  at  least,  in  that  I  shall  never 
accumulate  a  fortune,  own  a  grand 
house,  or  show  place  in  the  country, 
because  for  me  sufficient  unto  the  day 
is  the  bacon  and  the  meal.  That  is  of 
course  a  somewhat  extravagant  state- 
ment. I  do  diifer  in  certain  degree  from 
the  Senegambians.  I  hoe  until  I  can  see 
enough  bread  and  meat  in  sight  for 
tomorrow  and  maybe  the  next  day, 
before  I  go  philandering  with  Perseus 
[208] 


As  Ye  Hoe  so  Shall  Ye  Reap 

or  some  other  wanderer  in  the  great 
voids  that  lie  between  the  bank  vault 
and  the  blue  one  overhead.  The  diffi- 
culty is  that  it  has  taken  me  so  long 
to  dig  up  supplies  enough  to  last  until 
day  after  tomorrow  that  I  am  having 
to  file  a  very  strenuous  plea  for  an 
extension  of  the  time  limit  in  order 
that  I  may  enjoy  for  a  reasonable 
period  the  harvest  sweets  of  human 
existence.  And  so  if  this  little  book 
has  any  message  at  all  for  those  now 
headed  down  the  trail  it  must  be  just 
this: 

Hoe!  But  in  working  this  garden 
into  which  you  and  I  and  all  of  us 
were  born  do  not  put  off  too  long  the 
planting  and  cultivation  of  a  few  roses 
as  well  as  rhubarb;  spireas  as  well  as 
spinach.  I  know  you  will  produce 
more  beans  if  you  give  up  all  your 
ground  to  them  than  if  a  little  space  is 
devoted  to  dahlias,  and  that  it  may 
look  foolish  to  erect  a  martin  house 
instead  of  building  another  chicken 
[209] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


coop.  Another  concrete  pig  trough  may 
pay  bigger  cash  dividends  than  a  bird- 
bath  standing  underneath  green  over- 
hanging boughs.  You  can  grow  corn 
right  up  to  the  front  doorsteps  if  you 
want  to  filch  from  the  ground  every 
bushel  of  which  your  total  acreage  is 
capable.  You  can  buy  the  adjoining 
farm — which  you  may  not  need  half 
so  badly  as  a  modern  bathroom — and 
extend  your  proprietorship  in  a  way 
that  may  gratify  your  personal  vanity 
or  pride.  You  may  do  a  lot  of  things 
that  leave  out  of  consideration  all  but 
the  material  things  of  this  world,  only 
to  learn,  too  late  perhaps,  that  a  foun- 
tain placid,  plashing  always  some- 
where in  the  quiet  sanctuary  of  your 
inner  self,  fed  from  the  deep  still  waters 
of  the  Everlasting  Source,  might  have 
added  something  you  have  somehow 
missed. 


210] 


XV 

"Fair  and  Warmer" 

TT  THERE  the  ice  first  formed  along 
VV  the  edges  of  the  park  lagoon 
last  November  there  also  may  you 
look  for  it  first  to  yield  when  winter's 
grip  begins  to  break  in  March.  The 
bonds  are  to  be  relaxed  in  gentler 
fashion  than  they  were  forged.  The 
fogs  and  rain  are  gradually  luring  back 
the  life  that  has  so  long  been  ruthlessly 
repressed.  "Thaw  with  his  gentle 
persuasion  is  more  powerful  than  Thor 
with  his  hammer.  The  one  melts;  the 
other  breaks  in  pieces." 

This  morning  there  is  open  water 
where  yesterday  the  ice  still  held. 
Geese  are  bucking  the  northern  line 
with  flying-wedge.  The  catkins  on  the 

[211] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


willows  are  turning  yellow;  the  dog- 
wood crimson.  A  misty  haze  hangs 
over  all,  and  faint  suggestions  of  color 
— grays,  greens  and  browns — may  be 
seen  around  the  tree  tops.  In  the  park 
the  gardeners  are  raking  the  dead 
leaves  out  of  the  belts  of  shrubbery 
where  the  bulbs  have  long  been  waiting 
for  that  vernal  ceremony.  They  have 
already  heard  the  summons,  and  each 
is  now  prepared  to  show  what  he  has 
found  down  there  beneath  the  sur- 
face. Where  do  they  get  it  all?  How 
does  one  find  red,  another  yellow?  Or 
both  ?  Some  scientist  will  tell  you,  but 
that  is  one  thing  I  do  not  care  to  know 
all  about.  It  would  take  half  the 
pleasure  out  of  it.  Let  them  keep  some 
of  their  secrets.  Their  petals  are 
enough  to  satisfy  reasonable  souls. 

The  gates  are  opening  slowly.  They 
are  not  to  be  thrown  outward  with  one 
great  thrust  by  an  unseen  power,  but 
quietly,  even  noiselessly,  as  the  grass 
emerges  from  the  softening  earth.  The 

[212] 


'Fair  and  Warmer* 


first  robin  makes  no  effort  to  announce 
to  you  his  arrival.  He  has  probably 
been  somewhere  round-about  for  sev- 
eral days  before  you  see  him.  In  the 
vicinity  of  our  great  cold-storage  reser- 
voir, Lake  Michigan,  he  usually  comes 
too  soon  for  his  own  comfort.  He 
braves  the  searching  winds;  and  al- 
though the  bare  ground  as  yet  yields 
up  no  food  he  stands  firmly  by  his 
enterprise. 

It  has  now  been  many  weeks  since 
those  bulbs  were  buried  where  last 
summer's  flowers  had  bloomed.  Since 
then  there  has  been  little  time  to  think 
of  them.  Matters  of  more  consequence, 
from  conventional  standpoints,  have 
claimed  attention.  It  is  only  during 
idle  hours  that  one  may  be  permitted 
to  deal  with  such  comparatively  trivial 
things  as  tulips.  But  one  tires  of  this 
everlasting  wrestling  with  the  prob- 
lems of  how  dollars  and  reputations 
among  men  may  best  be  coined.  Some 
of  those  who  may  have  followed  me 
[213] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


thus  far  will  understand  that  all  this 
discursive  chat  about  a  lot  of  things  in 
general,  and  nothing  much  in  par- 
ticular, does  not  constitute  the  begin- 
ning and  the  ending  of  the  real  day's 
work.  Rather  let  it  be  known  that 
such  attempts  at  diversion  from  the 
daily  grind  represent  only  an  effort 
to  relax  the  strain  under  which  we 
all  labor  in  greater  or  less  degree  as 
we  seek  to  perform  each  his  allotted 
part. 

I  have  given  perhaps  my  share  of 
time  and  thought  to  other  things  than 
bees  and  birds  and  bulbs  and  books, 
but  now  and  then  I  just  have  to  throw 
the  window  open  wide,  and  take  a  good 
look  at  the  waving  trees  and  the  distant 
horizon,  or  run  the  risk  of  "blowing 
up."  And  the  fact  that  some  other 
people  are  similarly  situated  is  the  only 
possible  justification  for  a  working-man 
writing  or  reading  a  little  something 
now  and  then  that  makes  no  pretense 
to  being  anything  more  than  the  chaff, 
[214] 


'Fair  and  Warmer" 


that  is  in  reality  own  cousin  to  the 
solid  grain.  With  which  animadver- 
sion let  us  remark  that  the  man  doesn't 
live — or  if  he  does  he  isn't  fit  to  live — 
who  is  wholly  insensible  to  the  ele- 
vating influence  of  the  first  warm  days 
of  spring — the  days  on  which,  accord- 
ing to  Thoreau,  "all  men's  sins  are 
forgiven."  Peach  blossoms  will  soon 
be  strewing  their  pinkness  'round  about 
the  cabin  doors  of  Dixieland,  and  this 
side  the  Ohio  the  plums  and  thorns 
prepare  to  fling  their  fragrance  far  and 
wide. 

The  first  real  signal  for  a  thousand 
forms  of  both  animal  and  vegetable 
life  is  the  earliest  muffled  thunder-clap. 
Frogs  leap  and  croak  for  joy,  and 
violets  wake.  "Hello!  Hello!  Hello!" 
is  heard  from  every  hill  and  dale. 
"Here  we  all  are  again!"  comes  from 
the  singing  brooks  and  swelling  buds. 
High  on  the  topmost  branch  a  mocking 
bird  can  scarcely  find  ecstatic  notes 
enough  to  run  the  gamut  of  the  love 
[215! 


In  Winter  Quarters 


songs  of  the  air;  and  the  rainbow 
frames  the  picture  of  a  world  re-born. 
You  may  trust  the  bees  to  find  the 
first  pollen  on  the  earliest  willow's 
tassels.  They  are  tired  of  last  year's 
honey,  and  are  keen  for  newer  sweets. 
They  may  be  idiots  about  some  things, 
but  they  are  wiser  than  Solomon  in 
others.  There  is  one  fool  thing  a  bee 
will  do.  Before  we  left  Dumbiedykes 
last  fall  we  had  to  move  a  hive  to  a 
more  sheltered  position;  just  across 
the  little  lawn  from  the  quince  hedge 
to  an  angle  in  the  south  wall  of  the 
house,.  It  was  an  unseasonably  warm 
day  in  late  October,  following  a  cold 
wet  week.  Some  of  the  inmates  had 
evidently  gone  out  foraging  among  the 
few  straggling  remnants  of  the  floral 
year,  for  after  their  box  had  been 
carried  to  a  spot  not  more  than  forty 
feet  away  from  where  it  had  stood  all 
summer  they  were  utterly  unable  to 
find  it.  They  made  no  attempt  to  do 
so.  They  just  buzzed  aimlessly  around 
[216] 


'Fair  and  Warmer" 


the  spot  that  had  been  their  home,  and 
were  as  completely  lost  as  if  the  hive 
had  been  shipped  to  Halifax.  They 
were  still  hanging  around  the  old 
familiar  spot  as  a  stormy  night  came 
on,  and  doubtless  starved  to  death 
within  easy  sight  of  safety.  I  am  satis- 
fied that  it  would  have  been  the  same 
if  the  hive  had  been  moved  but  ten 
feet  instead  of  forty.  Instinct  they 
have,  plenty  of  it,  but  it  is  truly  blind. 

Today  I  took  my  own  way  back  to 
where  another  "hive"  has  stood  for 
lo!  these  many  years,  and  found  it  as 
of  yore.  For  it  had  not  been  moved. 
Had  it  been  missing  from  its  old  accus- 
tomed place  amidst  the  trees,  had  I 
found  bare  ground  where  once  the 
sweets  of  life  had  been,  I  had  been 
lost  more  hopelessly  perhaps  than 
were  the  homeless  bees. 

Yes,    I    confess    I    am    attached    to 

Dumbiedykes,  poor  as  it  is.    Maybe  I 

am  like  the  tree  that  overhangs  the 

roof,   in   some   respects.     This   oak   is 

[217] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


rooted  firmly  to  that  particular  spot, 
even  though  its  surroundings  may  seem 
mean  and  unattractive  to  those  who 
look  for  spacious  lawns  and  gardens. 

This,  our  roof-tree,  is  fated  never  to 
attain  heights  reached  by  many  of 
its  kind.  It  has  not  the  elm's  graceful 
habit  of  yielding  easily  to  inevitable 
conditions.  Unlike  the  willow  down 
there  by  the  stream,  it  bends  and  bows 
not  always  when  perhaps  it  should. 
My  burr  oak  has  not  Sequoian  majesty. 
Still  it  has  shown  a  certain  amount  of 
determination  or  it  would  long  ago 
have  succumbed  to  the  discourage- 
ments of  the  hard  clay  soil  through 
which  it  has  had  to  make  such  way 
as  it  has  found.  It  is  not  so  symmet- 
rically developed  as  it  might  be.  It 
has  a  good  side,  and  one  that  is  sadly 
deficient.  The  products  of  its  trunk — 
the  branches  it  has  put  out  into  the 
little  world  by  which  it  is  surrounded — 
are  more  or  less  erratic  and  eccentric 
in  character.  Still  at  divers  times  they 
[218] 


'Fair  and  Warmer* 


have  served  to  help  some  certain 
humble  folk  along  their  way.  I  know 
of  several  to  whom  it  has  at  least 
extended  shelter.  But  they  go  away. 
It  is,  in  short,  just  one  of  many  of  its 
kind  growing  near  perhaps  the  median 
line  of  oaken  excellence,  loving  the 
summer  sun,  and  rejoicing  in  the  visits 
of  its  friends. 

Storms  have  passed  over  it,  and  it 
shows  the  scars.  Whatever  it  is  or  is 
not,  however,  it  is  mine,  and  if  thou 
art  my  friend  and  stand  with  me 
sometime  beneath  its  wide-extended 
boughs,  I  pray  thee  do  not  fault  it 
over  much.  It  is  the  best  I  have.  It 
has  made  the  best  use  possible  of 
such  advantages  as  it  has  enjoyed, 
and  has  clearly  had  its  full  share  of 
adversity  to  contend  with  since  the 
day  it  began  its  career  in  the  midst  of 
surroundings  not  of  its  own  making. 
And  I  love  it  for  the  struggle  it  has 
made,  and  for  such  headway  as  it 
has  attained.  It  protects  our  western 
[219] 


In  Winter  Quarters 


windows  from  the  fervid  suns.  It 
has  thrown  broad  branches  over  the 
roof  under  which  we  sleep;  and  the 
raindrops  pattering  from  its  leaves 
upon  the  shingles  overhead  are  as  a 
loving  mother's  lullaby. 


[220] 


PRINTED  BY  B.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


on?-8,'2G 


-*ti   '3        A 


In  winter 


469699 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


